


In Pieces

by The_Asset6



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Shameless-Typical Language, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 78,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26661775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: Ian knew how things would go if he stayed: he wouldn’t be able to keep his distance for long and would turn into an eternal mistress, a dark and dirty secret that nobody would ever acknowledge loving. Not even Mickey, who part of him still believed just might.Hopedjust might.But it didn’t matter. None of that mattered anymore. He’d left home, and he wasn’t going back.It was time to forget.It was time to live.Ian’s Story: 3x12 through 4x08
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 125
Kudos: 50





	1. Prologue: Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I've really wanted to explore Ian's journey from his departure in 3x12 to his return in 4x08 for a while now, so that's exactly what this is. We really don't know anything besides the helicopter story, one other story Ian regaled his siblings with, and that he was with Ned for a short time before moving into that death trap with Monica. The rest is up for grabs. Thank goodness for fanfiction. :) 
> 
> Please note that while I have heavily researched the army's basic training protocols, I may have taken some small measure of creative license in lieu of firsthand knowledge on certain subjects and lack of sources for more solid information. Similarly, I do not have any firsthand experience with bipolar disorder and have had to rely on research, consulting sources that do, and Ian's portrayal in the show. Any constructive feedback is welcome in that regard!
> 
> As a final note, I would like to thank three incredible individuals and amazing fellow authors who have been of enormous assistance and support in the planning process for this story. Thank you so much to [whaticameherefor](https://whaticameherefor.tumblr.com/) for some help with clarifying elements of the s3-4 timeline, to [mickeys-upset](https://mickeys-upset.tumblr.com/) for allowing me to pick your brain about some of the inconsistencies between bipolar disorder and its portrayal in the show, and to [gallavictorious](https://gallavictorious.tumblr.com/) for meta-ing Ian with me so much that his brain-space feels more transparent. I'm eternally grateful! 
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

Ian never experienced riding a school bus on his first day.

They didn’t operate in his neighborhood when ten minutes on the L got them to their destination quicker than trekking to the nearest stop and wouldn’t waste tax dollars that most people didn’t think a bunch of kids from the slums were worth. He figured it couldn’t be too different from taking the train, though. There was probably no variation to the nerves that tingled in anticipation of a new place filled with some familiar faces and others that would stare at him like the latest attraction at the zoo. It had to be accompanied by the same rush of adrenaline and fulfillment at having moved further up the ladder towards becoming a functional, independent adult. Well, hopefully. Plenty of those faces vanished without graduating, reappearing later at the Save a Lot or Sizzler or a barstool in the Alibi.

Never in a million years had Ian expected to be one of them, and he _wasn’t_. Technically. Whether he was operating under his own name or Lip’s, this wasn’t capitulation or giving up any chance at making something of himself.

This was freedom. This was progress. It _had_ to be.

Ian never experienced riding a school bus on his first day, and he couldn’t help feeling that this didn’t really compare in the slightest. Despite the haste with which he’d made his decision, it just seemed _right_ —a natural progression rather than a plan he’d cobbled together in the dead of night while everyone else slept peacefully. He wasn’t worried about what would happen when they arrived at the base they’d call home for ten weeks, nor was he apprehensive at the prospect of being an outsider to start. If anything, Ian was flooded with relief as the sign indicating that they were leaving Chicago flashed past the window and the city gradually shrank behind him. The growing distance was like a knife that carved a heretofore inescapable weight out of his chest, dumped it in the Milkovich family’s front yard, and left it to rot. It couldn’t hurt him where he was going. Not anymore.

A smile tugged at his lips, and Ian hurried to tame his expression when the guy sitting beside him frowned. The last thing he wanted was to begin his new life as the freak who grinned for no damn reason, and he wasn’t about to explain either. It was nobody’s business, although he doubted they could begrudge him his good mood if they knew the full extent of the emotional roller coaster he’d endured this week alone.

Ian had finally gotten off the carnival ride from Hell and was _excited_ again after months of sporadic, numb detachment and lengthy stints where he ignored Fiona and Lip’s constant attempts at prying him out of bed with marginal success. Like a switch flipped, there was life flowing through him and no regrets dogging his steps, at least none that he was willing to allow any quarter in his head. He’d omitted a sizable chunk of shit, but he hadn’t been _completely_ faking it when he told Lip that he had to take no for an answer eventually. Hitting the pause button wouldn’t bring back what he’d lost, merely highlight it in even greater intensity. Thanks to Mickey, Ian understood that. Better late than never.

It was good that he had a Plan B.

Starting over and reinventing himself? Proving that he could _be_ somebody and constructing a distinct identity separate from the one he’d been assigned as Frank’s unremarkable, unexceptional, insignificant middle kid? Finding anything remotely resembling stability after a lifetime of seemingly eternal flux? That shit was nothing new. All of it had been central to the goals that led him to ROTC and pursuing West Point until he discovered he wasn’t smart enough for the latter. Now, he was actually following through, that was all. This had been a long time coming, never mind what motivated him to get with the program a couple years early. Unexpectedly, Monica had been on to something: what was the point in waiting?

His initial plan hadn’t exactly included leaving so many pieces of himself behind, but that was life. Shit fell apart, and you could either rebuild it or sweep it into a corner.

Ian had been holding a broom his entire life. His attempt at a different tack was way overdue.

The stiff vinyl seat, the pervasive odor of diesel fuel, the harsh bumps that heralded every pothole in the road—they spoke of possibility, of a path traveled that he’d admittedly begun to question a while ago. It wasn’t that he’d been second-guessing himself. Ian had dreamt of a future in the military almost as far back as he could remember, and the decision to join up had always felt like the correct one no matter how many arguments Lip obnoxiously presented to the contrary. What good did any of that do him? They weren’t the same: Ian wasn’t college material and never had been. In retrospect, the best he could hope for was probably holding onto his job at the Kash and Grab for the rest of his life while Lip made millions designing drones for the army or whatever. He’d been dumb to imagine that he’d ever hack it as an officer, and Frank’s disdain for how hard he worked to make sense of those geometry theorems echoed through his mind on repeat with jarring accuracy.

Ian was fortunate that his next best option didn’t steer him too far off course. Entering the ranks of the enlisted grunts was never his first choice, but joining the marines or the army at any level nevertheless provided a steady paycheck in a structured institution doing something worthwhile that would help people. What more could he ask for? Besides, he’d be lying if he said the notion of being a hero didn’t appeal to him. Yeah, Carl looked up to him, but this wasn’t like that. Every earned patch and medal on his chest would be irrevocable proof that Ian Clayton Gallagher wasn’t some piece of shit destined for alcoholism with an overdose chaser like Frank and Monica. Being away from home for years at a time sucked in theory but wouldn’t be as big a hardship when his family was taken care of and he was giving them a reason to be proud for a change.

What he hadn’t counted on, however, was a new and ostensibly insurmountable hardship springing up a few months ago. If he left, it wasn’t solely his family he would say goodbye to anymore—or so it seemed then. Ever since Mickey came home from juvie, he’d been… _different_. The insults hadn’t flown as freely and were sanded down by a hair; his standoffish, stubborn endeavor to hide what he was from the rest of the world had grown more muted. They spent time together. They talked and had fun. They kissed, and Mickey touched him like he was precious and not just a casual fuck. Ian had started to believe that they might be…

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he gritted his teeth and curbed that train of thought. God, he could be so fucking stupid sometimes.

But whatever. The stuff he’d _believed_ might happen was neither here nor there anymore. The point was that, between those unforeseen circumstances and his irrational disappointment over what he never should have aspired to, the system he’d clung to for years had become complicated beyond what Ian ever could have anticipated. Suddenly, his choice wasn’t so easy to make, and Ian had resorted to avoiding it until he got his priorities straight. Even that was no walk in the park: how was he supposed to decide between his head and his traitorous heart?

Like this, apparently. On a bus. Leaving home behind for four years. Minimum.

Ultimately, this wasn’t where Ian had expected to be regardless of the timing, what had influenced it, or all the work he’d put into winding up here anyway. He hadn’t thought about it at all after the morning that haunted his dreams on and off for months, but he hadn’t _not_ thought about it either. Mostly, he’d just felt…empty. Drained. The final rug had been yanked out from under him, thrusting him into a spiraling black hole where he couldn’t tell up from down and a year’s worth of chaos came to a head after the fact in a way it hadn’t in the spontaneous moments where it erupted.

Aunt Ginger’s makeshift grave in the backyard.

Navigating the intermittent romantic warfare between his brother and best friend.

DCFS showing up and forcing them out of their home.

Getting tossed in a facility for the future criminal underbelly of the city as if they belonged there.

Fiona becoming more than their sister and de facto head of household.

Patrick evicting them until Debbie’s stroke of genius at the eleventh hour saved their asses.

Wondering whether Fiona was seriously going to make them move to Michigan for Jimmy.

Mickey.

Terry.

Ian had been joking when he’d called it the Milkovich House of Horrors—mostly. What he wouldn’t have given to be wrong.

Instead, it amounted to the undigested corn kernels that poked out from atop the heaping pile of shit that had been dumped on him lately. All the other stuff, he could manage. Gallaghers didn’t lie there and let life kick the crap out of them without giving as good as they got in return. No, they were at their best when the chips were down. Whatever they had going on, they banded together and got the job done. That was perhaps the only constant in their crazy, mixed up lives and had gotten them this far without anybody ending up dead or in prison yet.

It didn’t extend to this particular situation, though. Lip knew a little of what had happened, but everyone else? They didn’t need to hear that crap, not when there were no answers to his questions or solutions to be found except moving the fuck on. Not this time. Why drag them down along with him? This was his burden to bear and his mess to clean up.

And, in true Gallagher fashion, it was a pretty big fucking mess. In true Gallagher fashion, he’d even made it worse.

What the fuck else he was supposed to do? Walk away? Hell, no. He couldn’t just let go of what he’d been so sure they had.

Maybe that was his first mistake.

Was it desperation that had propelled him to the wedding after Lip repeatedly assured him that it would be a clusterfuck of epic proportions if he went? Was it the stubbornness coded into Gallagher genes like addiction, failed romances, and running from their problems? A week later and miles outside the city, Ian still couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that their frenzied lovemaking—he’d refused to accept that it was anything else at the time—had lifted him from the slump he’d been drowning in since Mandy dropped the marriage bomb at school. It wasn’t what he’d gone there for, but it had been a salve for the burn of Mickey’s prolonged absence nonetheless. After waking up every morning and looking in the mirror to see someone he didn’t fully recognize anymore staring back, all the pieces clicked into place again with kisses and sighs and…

He must have been crazy. He’d _felt_ fucking crazy when the messages Mickey sent by holding him close were almost immediately contradicted by his words.

They didn’t make sense. _Nothing_ made sense. It was all fucked up. The world had dissolved into upside down, topsy-turvy bullshit that stretched and distorted his reality like an abstract, unintelligible nightmare. Mickey wanted him but not enough to defy his father and cancel the wedding. Mickey _cared_ about him yet refused to say so even if nobody else would hear. Mickey was the toughest son of a bitch on the South Side but was so scared of what it meant to be himself that he wouldn’t take a risk for a shot at happiness.

Mickey was going through with the marriage.

Mickey also expected Ian to wait in the basement like some bitch, as he’d phrased it.

Getting wasted hadn’t subdued the rapid whirl of emotions and uncertainty that the mental whiplash had knocked loose inside Ian’s head. The alcohol didn’t confirm what would have been obvious and incontrovertible validation that Ian wasn’t totally losing his mind if it hadn’t been followed by an offer to become little more than a mistress, the same as he had been for Kash and Ned. The logical course of action would have been to slip away when an opportune moment presented itself, quiet and unnoticed as though he were simply a redheaded stain on a brief and inconsequential portion of Mickey’s life. But logic didn’t make any difference when logic had run away from Terry like _they_ should have when he caught them.

Ian drank anyway because it was the only thing that _did_ make sense despite the voice in the back of his head saying he should at least attempt to play the part of a dispassionate attendee for Mickey’s sake—even for Mandy’s. Why bother, though? Terry hadn’t been watching him. Hell, Ian may as well have been invisible, as far as he was concerned. He was too enraptured by Mickey marrying Svetlana to care whether the guy he’d found fucking his son was around to witness it. Ian was sober enough to register that part.

Thankfully, the rest of the night didn’t exist beyond a blurred tapestry he didn’t want to remember anyway. There was pain everywhere and the irrational if distant fear that his heart had stopped beating in his chest. Ugly pink dresses had flashed in his periphery, and an amalgamation of imperfect English and incomprehensible Russian enveloped him through the barrier he’d imbibed into place. Lip wasn’t there and then he was, yelling at Mandy while she shoved some big black guy at him. Once his hangover subsided and a few things peeked out from behind the hazy wall of intoxication where he’d stuffed them, Ian vaguely recalled mentioning love and changing his tune because no. Because Mickey didn’t love him anymore, if he ever had to begin with. Because if Mickey did love him, then he’d never show it. Because Mickey wasn’t willing to fight _for_ them like he’d fight Ian _about_ them.

His fists clenched around the duffel bag wedged between his knees. Although the vodka had dulled the edges of those memories, he’d belatedly realized that the humiliation would never ease when Lip teased him about falling for Mickey yesterday morning. Foggy as they were, the words couldn’t be unsaid; the sentiment that spawned them had been vomited at the two people who were also mercifully the least likely to give him a hard time over it. If he hadn’t already committed to this path by that point, Ian would have been sorely tempted to crawl under his blankets again and pretend it never happened.

But it did. And he’d made his choice.

Ian couldn’t keep waking up to a stranger in the mirror and wondering where the person he used to be before _Mickey Milkovich_ had gone. The lie that caricature of himself had been living threatened to destroy the last of what he _did_ recognize. Racing thoughts and niggling doubts that had him poring over every second of their relationship (or whatever it had actually been) were gradually driving him insane as he reevaluated each word, sentence, and look. All that loss and grief and despair—there was no coping when he didn’t even know whether their origins were real in the first place or if they could be salvaged from the grave Terry had dug for them in the unlikely event that they were.

Closure. One way or another, he’d needed closure.

Enlistment took precedence. Then packing his shit according to the rules he’d found in a pamphlet from the recruiting station. Or maybe he was simply delaying the inevitable because he really didn’t want to fucking pull another brick from the precariously leaning Jenga tower he’d been attempting to balance for two years.

When Ian ran out of excuses for putting it off and finally arrived at the Milkovich house, where their fate had been sealed months earlier, he couldn’t quite identify what he was hoping for. That Mickey would tell him he was downplaying everything and honestly reciprocated Ian’s feelings with equal passion? That he’d order him to get the fuck out of his house because they were just banging and it wasn’t that serious? That he wouldn’t be home at all, or his wife _would_? Whichever way he spun the dial, Ian’s amorphous expectations were replaced with all the shit he couldn’t forget the moment he walked through the door and Mandy left him alone in the foyer.

There was the living room where they’d eaten dinner and watched movies together for the first and only time.

Inside was the couch that had seen as much as Ian yet had weathered the storm far more steadfastly.

Bowing his head to stare at the floor didn’t help, the ghost of his own bare feet latching onto his shoes as a reminder of what had happened while he’d stood there, utterly powerless.

Then there was Mickey, and Ian felt better and worse and okay and wrong all at once. Being invited to his room should have evoked a smile; teased for his reluctance, a laugh. Except Mickey was as much a stranger now as Ian’s reflection, inscrutable and unidentifiable as the guy he was prior to their lives becoming more complex than merely growing up poor on the South Side necessitated.

As he stood on Mickey’s threshold and listened to him make small talk to lighten the mood, Ian had mentally peeled back the layers enshrouding his casual demeanor in search of something— _anything_ —that might tell him he’d misunderstood what Mickey was trying to communicate at his wedding. A sign that his insanity was imagined and their connection wasn’t.

What he got instead nearly made a bitter laugh bubble up from his throat right there on the bus, surrounded by fellow recruits who were also leaving their pasts in the rear-view mirror for their own reasons.

Kash had treated him like an escape hatch. Ned saw him as a plaything he could text for a hook-up whenever it suited him. Lip had jokingly called him a slut once. Mandy had, as well.

Nothing matched Mickey demoting them to the equivalent of his whore wife _fucking dudes_.

As if _Ian_ were the prostitute.

That may have been his sign, after all. It was definitely closure.

He should have recognized that it was too much to wish for Mickey to give him a reason to stay or flat out _ask_ so that Ian couldn’t stupidly misconstrue what they had—or didn’t. For a second, they came close enough that he could taste it like his own tears. Mickey had lashed out, which was equal parts painful and cruelly comforting, but… Nothing. He wouldn’t. He _couldn’t_ , and watching him choke on the words appeased Ian’s fleeting and aimless longing for retribution without bringing him any real satisfaction. There was fuck all he could do if Mickey wouldn’t take the first step. Standing strong backfired every time with the Milkoviches; holding his ground drew bigger, more vicious monsters out of the shadows of their neighborhood.

For two years, Ian had ignored the cards stacked against them and contorted his desires to fit Mickey’s needs. He’d kept their secret from his own family, snuck around like they were doing something wrong, and avoided pushing for more than Mickey was willing to give him until fairly recently. Someday, he’d reasoned, it would pay off. Someday, they’d get to be together on their own terms and what _he_ wanted would matter too.

Now, he was simply too exhausted to keep fighting for _them_ by himself.

Now, Mickey was married, and Ian couldn’t be to him what he’d been to every other married man that had glanced twice in his direction: his shame, not his pride.

The army was different, which appealed to Ian the most. There were plenty of ways to put some much-needed distance between them so that he wouldn’t eventually cave, but he had _prepared_ for this. It _meant_ something, and not just retreating from the pit that was swallowing him whole. Everybody on the bus with him would be his brother from here on out, in arms instead of blood. There wouldn’t be solitary battles anymore. Ian would never be alone again even as he comfortably settled into the relative anonymity of the routine, the unit, the _purpose_. His fight would be their fight and vice versa. They’d prop him up and delight in his achievements and have his back through thick and thin—it was their duty, and it was their honor to uphold it. That was essential to the creed that they would swear by soon enough: to be a good member of a team and never leave a fallen comrade behind. Not _every man for himself_. Not putting up or shutting up.

Not prioritizing their evil, psychotic douchebag of a fath—

 _Stop_ , Ian silently pleaded, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. It was all over. The nightmare had ended, and he was leaving its remnants at home where Mickey could watch over them along with the shattered glass of Ian’s unfamiliar reflection and smoldering ruin of whatever he wanted to call what they used to have. What better caretaker was there? Mickey had opted to live like that, after all, not Ian.

If he was lucky, the seven-hour drive separating them would be sufficient for Ian to forget about him and put his head back together without all the confusion of constantly deciphering where they stood. Odds were that it wouldn’t take Mickey long to do the same. He had a wife and a baby on the way, not to mention a father who was taking a special interest in his love life, so it was really a matter of time before Ian vanished from his mind like he’d disappeared from the South Side altogether.

They were moving on. Both of them. Separately.

Fine. No big deal, right? It had happened when Lip helped him with his West Point credentials only for the brass to decide he was the more attractive candidate, too. There was a lot to be said for cutting out the middleman and going it alone when the alternative was so fucking complicated.

Mickey had told him to grow the fuck up at his wedding. It had spilled out of his mouth with a bunch of other shit that Ian was attempting to bury far enough below the surface that he wouldn’t accidentally happen upon it ever again. Whether he’d spoken genuinely or not was still up in the air, but Ian was doing it anyway. They could consider it the last time he took orders from Mickey Milkovich.

He’d move on.

He’d grow up.

He’d figure out who and what he would be when he couldn’t do it at home.

It would be difficult. Ian had accepted that last night while they celebrated Lip’s graduation and he ruminated on all that he would miss when he was gone: Fiona’s unconditional love for them, Lip’s endless albeit occasionally sarcastic support, Debbie’s fair-weather altruism, Liam’s smile, and Carl’s… _Carlness_. The energy that Kev and V brought with the spaghetti sauce and boxed wine. Hauling Frank to the dumpsters in the alley when he decided a manipulative visit was in order. Hanging out with Mandy. Rolling his eyes at Linda.

Feeling special.

Feeling loved.

But it was going to be okay. When he saw the South Side again, he would have what he’d always wanted. He’d be somebody important and valued. Somebody that wasn’t just another Gallagher. Somebody his family would be proud of.

Somebody that maybe Mickey could have loved enough when it actually mattered.


	2. Part 1.1: The Army

The snow-spattered scenery outside the bus window emphasized just how far from home Ian had come. Waynesville, Missouri was the exact opposite of Chicago: rolling hills, empty fields, and balding trees dominated the landscape as far as the eye could see on their approach. The clear blue sky was unmarred by cigarette smoke, car exhaust, or the pollution from never-ending construction projects that accumulated as the inevitable result of a couple million people being crammed together in one spot. City skyscrapers he’d grown accustomed to as a kid were replaced by single-story businesses and quiet streets as they entered the town proper, and he idly wondered whether traffic jams existed out here when they barely passed any other vehicles in the middle of the afternoon. It was a calm atmosphere, free of the shouting and occasional reverberations of gunshots in the distance that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary back on the South Side. Come to think of it, did this town even _have_ a rough end? From what he could tell, it wasn’t very likely. There were too many Andy Griffith vibes emanating from the place. If he didn’t know any better, Ian would have expected the people he did occasionally spy on the sidewalk to be dressed as if they really were living in the 1950s. Not much appeared to have changed around here since then, that was for sure.

So, it was the perfect location for a military base. They were off the beaten path to run maneuvers in the seeming wasteland surrounding them but not so isolated from civilization that the soldiers stationed here couldn’t find something fun to occupy their off hours. If _fun_ was the right word for it. Ian wasn’t sure how that worked given that they had officially arrived in the part of the world where the nearest club probably played nothing but country music and even civilians were in bed by nine.

Of course, what the locals did to slake their boredom wasn’t of much concern to anybody on their bus: they wouldn’t be allowed to leave base until they graduated unless it was for training exercises. That was perfectly fine by Ian. He wasn’t here for a good time.

His new compatriots were of the same mind, or so he assumed from their relative silence. Eventually, they would have to quit avoiding each other’s gazes and interact. That was sort of the point—to become the spine of not only the nation, but their own infantries. Teamwork didn’t happen through osmosis, as one of his ROTC instructors had told their company during a retreat. It took effort and hard work to get along with the people you’d someday allow to hold your life in their hands, particularly the ones you didn’t like a whole lot. For the most part, however, they opened their mouths purely to grunt when a bump in the road roughly jostled them in their seats. Here and there, Ian caught whispers drifting around behind him; the guys that had already met each other prior to enlisting made small talk to lessen the tension that increasingly threatened to strangle them. If everyone else was anything like Ian, then they forewent the pleasantries to focus on readying themselves for what awaited at the end of the road, marveling at the novelty of their new digs, or both.

It worked for now. There would be plenty of time for introductions once they were properly outfitted and eviscerated for the slightest transgression.

With each green sign at the edge of the highway declaring that their proximity to the base was steadily closing, Ian had to admit that the lack of socializing—or the expectation to do so—was a blessing. His heart was lodged in his throat as they drove through the final waypoint, and he didn’t doubt that if he tried to speak, nothing of any value would come out.

This was it. This was everything he’d worked, hoped, and prepared for.

Actually, that wasn’t what _he’d_ done. It was what _Phillip Gallagher_ had done.

It would take him a while to get used to that.

Enlisting under Lip’s name was an accidental stroke of irony that even his brother had to appreciate when he found out. Lip in the army? Yeah, that was never going to happen no matter how many robots they let him work on. Aside from his general contempt for anything vaguely resembling authority, he wouldn’t progress past the first stage of the journey. Grades and test scores weren’t important here; that impressive GPA Mandy kept going on about wouldn’t distinguish him from anybody else. His individualism wasn’t considered a virtue, just as his lack of motivation would be deemed a threat to more than merely himself. For once in his life, Ian had the leg up. Lip was old enough, but _Ian_ could pass the fitness exam ten times over. Lip was smart enough, but _Ian_ understood the value of following orders and working _with_ a team instead of telling the team to go fuck themselves if they didn’t want to do things his way.

He loved his brother. Really, he did. They’d been best friends for as long as he could remember, even when they beat each other to a pulp or weren’t on speaking terms.

He loved his brother, but Lip could be kind of an asshole.

Then again, so could Ian. The fake ID and copied Social Security card and birth certificate in his bag were evidence of that.

Gallaghers, right?

The bus decelerated, and Ian clutched the edge of his seat to keep his balance when they turned off the main road. What little conversation there had been automatically petered out with the appearance of the red brick building from the brochure in Ian’s duffel bag, everyone quietly taking stock of the line of flags proudly welcoming them to the next chapter of their lives.

Oh, and the line of drill sergeants waiting to welcome them, too. That was pretty hard to miss.

Just in case they did, though, one of the officers boarded the bus faster than the driver could open the door to scream, “Everybody out, _now_! Move it, let’s go!”

She didn’t have to tell them that an invisible clock was ticking.

Ian snatched his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, already on his feet before the words had a chance to pummel the unlucky bastards who’d unwisely decided to sit at the rear. They’d practiced this so often at school that Ian could recount the rules in his sleep: don’t be the first, and don’t be the last. The former would catch shit for everything they did wrong while the latter would get verbally flagellated for not moving their asses quicker. In the middle, you weren’t necessarily _safe_ , but you stood a better chance of dodging the drill sergeants’ shit lists a bit longer.

In that regard, his first mission—disembarking from the bus without invoking the wrath of their superiors—was a success. Ian shoved his duffel between two guys as they hurried to pass him, making just enough space to deftly slip through and trot out onto the pavement. The shouting didn’t faze him in the slightest, although he noticed more than one visibly anxious recruit scrambling to gather their wits rather than paying attention to their surroundings. Jesus, did _any_ of them bother to sign up for ROTC?

…He hadn’t either? Because he was Phillip Gallagher. _Lip_ for short. Lip preferred smoking in the bathroom and was never in ROTC. Didn’t even consider it. His high school transcripts said so. This was a decision he’d been contemplating for a couple of years so that he could send money home to his impoverished family and perhaps pay for college in the future. Formal preparation hadn’t been among his priorities, although he wished he’d made a different decision in retrospect.

Okay, so maybe there was more to pretending to be his brother than he’d counted on. Ian’s poorly rehearsed story sounded like shit _inside_ his head, so he could only imagine how unimpressive it would seem once he was called upon to preach it aloud.

But he could figure that crap out later. For now, he darted into one of the rapidly forming lines so that he wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire when the arbitrary, imaginary timer went off and the drill sergeants lost their shit on anybody who couldn’t take a hint. You didn’t need extensive training or preparation to read the room—or most of them didn’t. Some ended up with an officer hovering over their shoulders, shouting insults in their ears about common sense and following orders and learning how to comprehend English since their grasp on the language was clearly subpar.

Those of them who were quicker on the uptake waited stiffly, none brave enough to turn around and watch. It wasn’t their place to rubberneck or gawk at the rowdy display. Their singular job was to await further instructions. That was how this worked, and Ian was determined not to be the person who fucked it up for the group. One of the officers was already yelling about them getting back on the bus and attempting this again. Call him crazy, but he wasn’t keen on the idea when he was shivering beneath his coat and wanted to get started with their Reception Battalion as soon as possible.

The drill sergeants didn’t share his eagerness and forced them to stand at attention for a full minute after everyone was finally in position. It was a power play. Ian had seen it coming from a mile away, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the ensuing confirmation that they passed the second test with a more satisfactory score than their last.

“Welcome to the United States Army,” a deep, thunderous voice announced. Where the diverse collection of officers waited in front of them, a tall black man with a predictably stern expression and frighteningly impressive muscles stepped ahead of the others. “For the next twelve weeks, Fort Leonard Wood will be your home. You will sleep here. You will eat here. You will train here. It is your responsibility to familiarize yourself with the layout of the facilities on site. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Ian obediently recited in unison with the rest.

The officer—Staff Sergeant D. Mulligan, he registered after a quick scan of his insignia and name tag—eyed them critically for a moment before waving a hand towards the cattle herders. At once, they moved down the lines, briskly distributing stacks of hefty manuals while he spoke over their footsteps.

“Each of you will receive _The Soldier’s Blue Book_. You will read every page of this pamphlet prior to completing the reception process. There will be ample opportunity while you wait.”

Ian surreptitiously flipped to the back of the book and struggled not to let his surprise show on his face. They were going to need all the time they could get. Three hundred pages of dense military protocol in a handful of days? It was like English class all over again.

When nobody committed the cardinal sin of questioning their orders, Mulligan continued, “The moment you enter this building, you become a soldier of the United States Army and will comport yourselves as such. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

“Good. Once you have completed your SHARP briefing, you will be given one chance to dispose of any contraband you may be carrying and briefly contact your families to inform them of your arrival. Proceed inside in a more orderly fashion than you clowns managed the first time, and stand at attention until you’re issued further instructions. Understood?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” Ian repeated around a lump in his throat, distractedly following along behind the next person in line.

A fleeting surge of curiosity had him wondering what would happen if he took them up on the offer to call home. Carl believed he was on an ROTC retreat, but as far as anybody else was aware, he simply…wasn’t there. With school closed for winter break, Ian could have been at work or with Mandy or just about anyplace else. It wasn’t like they kept tabs on where he was, so he came and went as he pleased without a great deal of fanfare for the most part. How would Fiona react if Ian called to tell her that he was in Missouri? Would she impress upon him how important it was that he finish high school like she had with Lip? Perhaps. Tell him to get his ass home or set aside the Michigan apartment debacle long enough to make Jimmy drive her all the way out here so she could drag him back herself? Probably. There was always the possibility that she wouldn’t answer her phone at all if she was at her cushy new office job or busy with the plethora of shit that could be going wrong in the Gallagher house at a given moment.

He could find out. A quick scroll through his contacts, and he’d know.

But Ian wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk blowing this all to hell, not when he was literally standing on the edge of his future. There would be other openings to talk to his family and convince them that this was for the best once he finished his training. At that point, it wouldn’t make a difference whether they approved or not: it would be too late for them to force him to quit.

The wordless shifting of clothes and pounding of shoes against the scuffed tile echoed in harmonious rhythm, and Ian let thoughts of home and his family submerge beneath the din. They didn’t belong here the way he did, sitting cross-legged on the floor of what looked uncannily similar to his school’s cafeteria and listening to Staff Sergeant Chang lecture them on the basics of sexual harassment and assault prevention, reporting, and consequences.

Ian had never been what any of his teachers would term a model student, but he listened raptly to every word and copied the impassively imparted information into his _Blue Book_ with the pen he’d been handed when they entered the room. None of them complained about how cold the concrete felt on their asses or that their belongings divided their already limited personal space in half. Although they’d only stopped once during the trip to grab lunch from a shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere that probably hadn’t undergone a health inspection since the early eighties, they weren’t stupid and controlled their bladders rather than asking where they could find a bathroom. They didn’t speak. They didn’t ask questions.

They listened.

They wrote.

They did as they were told.

Deep inside his chest, the storm that had been wreaking havoc on Ian’s reality ebbed, and an unfamiliar sense of order took its place. This was everything he ever could have hoped for and far more than he’d dared to imagine, all in their first hour on base. Here, Ian didn’t have to think or feel or worry about shoes that always seemed to drop at the worst possible moments. That was someone else’s responsibility. _His_ was responding according to a set of standards and expectations that never changed, never varied, never wavered. No matter how poor you were or which side of the L tracks you lived on or who you loved, the rules remained the same. All you had to do was follow them, and you’d be set for life.

He was good at following rules, having spent sixteen years memorizing the ones handed down from generation to South Side generation. Admittedly, it wasn’t so difficult since there were just two all-encompassing commandments in their ghetto neighborhood: do what you had to, and don’t get caught doing it. Fitting into Ned’s world had been a whole other story. Ian’s clothes, his demeanor, the drinks he ordered, his reaction to their prices, how loud he laughed, how much he said, how acutely he stood out from the crowd—it was like rich people were simply waiting for you to fuck up the slightest, most benign norm so they could point and laugh and identify you as not belonging to their elite club. It took a bit longer to learn and master the art of embodying those unnecessary and borderline ridiculous expectations, but Ian had done pretty well. Until a drunken Ned showed up at their house in the middle of the night and the one-way mirror Ian had been imitating irreparably cracked, that was.

Luckily, there was no danger of that happening here. Ian had crossed all his Ts and dotted his Is. He’d paid good money to ensure that his identity—which was to say, _Lip’s_ identity—would pass muster. As long as he kept his nose clean and toed the line, there was no reason why anyone should suspect that he wasn’t exactly who he claimed.

And he _would_ toe the line.

Frank always said you should play to your strengths. For him, it was bucking the system for a free ride and slithering out of the holes he dug for himself.

For Ian, it was obeying rules.

That was why he could skip the amnesty brief and head straight for processing while most of his new comrades upended their bags into plastic bins and garbage cans to rid themselves of anything a quick Google search would have told them they should have left at home.

That was why he made it through the first two chapters of the _Blue Book_ and was already doubling back to memorize the Army Values when they called his name to join a personnel officer at their desk.

That was why he had all his required documentation in order so that he could complete the veritable mountain of paperwork they dumped in his lap as others scrambled to find what they needed under the keen eyes of bored, disdainful desk jockeys.

 _Almost_ all his required documentation.

“Direct deposit?” Ian inquired blankly. Shandra, who appeared to be wishing that she were literally anywhere but at her station dealing with clueless recruit after clueless recruit, didn’t so much as glance away from her computer screen.

“To the checking or savings account you’re designating to receive your pay. Account _and_ routing numbers.”

“Oh...” Because people with real jobs didn’t accept cash under the table or pick up a paper check every week. Right.

Misunderstanding his hesitation, she sighed impatiently and used the tip of her pen to push the ancient desk phone towards him. “If you need to call home for that information, dial nine for the outside line.”

“No, I…uh…” Ian cleared his throat and peered around the rows of cubicles. Everybody else was too busy asking their own embarrassing questions to butt into his, thank God. “I don’t…have a bank account.”

To her credit, Shandra didn’t bat an eye. Instead, she whipped a form from her filing cabinet without looking, slapped it down in front of him, and instructed, “Fill this out.”

_Okay…_

Frowning, Ian examined the vacant questionnaire with _USAA Checking Account Application_ emblazoned across the top in bold letters and shrugged. Right now, he’d sign anything if it got him out of this chair.

“Next of kin?” she continued alongside the sound of his pen scribbling Lip’s information in all the appropriate places.

“Uh, Fiona Gallagher.”

Typing. “Relationship?”

“Sister.”

“Recruits typically designate a parent or spouse as next of kin,” was her obviously practiced response. “Do you still wish to appoint your sister?”

“Yeah, she’s my legal guardian. _Former_ legal guardian,” he tacked on, inwardly cursing at his misstep. Adults didn’t _have_ fucking legal guardians.

_Pull it together._

Whether she hadn’t noticed his slip-up or merely didn’t care, Shandra guided him through the rest of the agonizingly tedious checklist one document at a time without pausing to cast doubt on any of his borrowed data, and the anxious tension in his shoulders gradually began to ease once more. In this instance, he was lucky.

Next time, he might not be.

So, Ian was as careful with his remaining answers as Fiona had been with storing the medical records he presented as evidence of his immunizations. (Who knew what Frank might want them for? None of them put it past him to sign them up for a black-market kidney donation or unsanctioned medical experiment if he was really strapped for cash, so better safe than sorry.) He kept his responses short. No extraneous explanations or unprompted justifications—just _yes ma’am_ and _no ma’am_ ing his way through collecting his basic fitness gear, stuffing it into his bag, and getting the hell out of Reception Battalion without further incident.

The hours had ticked by unnoticed while they’d been harangued and questioned to death, so it was dark when he exited Grant Hall, the sky dotted with stars that they couldn’t see as well in Chicago with all the lights blotting them out. The view was spectacular, and Ian spared a brief moment to absorb it before shouts and hustling footsteps had him rushing to keep up with the line that was hastily marching towards the DFAC at last. A few seconds on his own to breathe and take it all in would have been nice, but Ian sternly reminded himself that it didn’t matter. The universe wasn’t going anywhere. He’d have plenty of opportunities over the next few months for stargazing or whatever. The promise of food was a more than welcome distraction anyway.

If…it could be called food.

“What the fuck is that?” the guy behind him whispered, nodding towards a foul-smelling bowl of orange goo that one of the uniformed service employees unceremoniously deposited onto Ian’s tray.

“I, uh…think it’s carrots?” he murmured with a slight grimace at the bitter scent.

“Looks more like rotten applesauce.”

Ian played it safe by not articulating his agreement and continued along the metal counter for a charred slab of chicken and what he assumed to be some type of fruit. The instant he said anything one way or another, an officer would doubtless be breathing down his neck about where else he could stick his meal if not in his mouth. No, thanks. Plus, he didn’t hear the other recruits complaining. He couldn’t quite tell if that was because they’d all suddenly registered how hungry they were or if they weren’t supposed to be talking at all. For his part, Ian would have eaten a brick if that was what the drill sergeants handed him, even though he had to admit that he’d foraged for more visibly edible stuff in alleyway dumpsters all over his neighborhood.

The screech of a bullhorn ripped aside memories of paper bags filled with stale bagels and recently expired pancake mix, and a predictably angry voice ordered, “Get a move on! Chow hall closes in fifteen minutes. Whatever you don’t finish goes in the garbage.”

With parameters like those, there was no point in making conversation, which left Ian with more time to adjust to the idea that anything could taste bearable if you ate it fast enough to bypass your tongue completely.

***

That bullhorn was apparently going to be their new best friend.

It accompanied them out of the DFAC, down the street, and into the placeholder barracks where they would temporarily be sleeping until they completed the reception process and were transferred to their permanent training units. It told them how quickly to move, what direction to turn, and where to stop. There was a siren function that erupted whenever anyone fell a few inches behind the rest of the group. The echoing in their ears never abated, and Ian was positive that his brain would be replaying the proper protocol for storing his personal items on a loop for the next week. But that was to be expected. Drill sergeants were literally invented to annoy the shit out of you as a test to determine how well you performed under pressure, maintained your composure, and ultimately succeeded in transitioning from civilian to soldier.

One advantage to growing up with Frank haphazardly blowing through the house like their own personal tornado? It took a hell of a lot to rattle Ian’s cage. 

Still, settling into the barracks was stranger than he’d anticipated and elicited an entirely different reaction from his numerous ROTC excursions. By comparison, those were nothing: they were away from home for a couple of days, learning how to navigate and survive in desperate situations where they were separated from their unit. They’d slept in tents and sleeping bags outside the city to experience rougher terrain that nevertheless wasn’t anywhere near as rough as what had been on display outside the bus. Once, their company had taken a trip to Fort Dearborn, but they hadn’t spent the night there or anything. A few hours, then they were back in their own beds surrounded by familiar smells, sounds, and faces.

This time, there wasn’t any _going home_. There wasn’t any _familiar_. As they’d been told earlier, this base _was_ home for the foreseeable future. After that, he’d be sent someplace else for more training before ideally getting shipped so far away from Chicago that his demons wouldn’t be able to find him ever again. Afghanistan, Germany, Japan—wherever he ended up, it would be an adventure. Talk about exhilarating, both the plan itself and the concept of having one at all.

Even so, hovering at the edge of a precipice and waiting until the paperwork was filed to take the plunge… It was like the calm before the storm or Monica’s deceptive resolution to stay when they were all standing by for her to either crash or take off instead. His skin prickled, his mind was restless…

And he felt… _lonelier_ than he’d thought he would.

If any of the other guys were coming to the same realization, they didn’t outwardly show it. Once their drill sergeant left them with strict instructions to get their shit sorted, take care of their personal hygiene, and go the fuck to sleep, everyone retreated into the dazed exhaustion that would usually sweep anything else from your head.

Ian attempted to let that level of detachment wash over him. He really did. His body was aching from hefting his duffel around and sitting on uncomfortable bus seats or hard concrete floors all day; so much information had been poured into his brain and forced out of his fingers that he wanted nothing more than to shut both down for a while.

Luck wasn’t on his side.

There was this sting in his chest that wouldn’t go away regardless of how vehemently he willed it to leave him the hell alone. It hadn’t bothered him during the hours he’d spent putting his affairs in order, yet it took advantage of the silence and the running water in their communal shower to remind him of its presence. There was no ignoring it—a soldier sought solutions to problems, not evasion.

Was it that he felt disorganized from the lack of time they’d been given to manage their new inventory? No, that couldn’t be it. Ian dumped out his duffel on the thin mattress of his bottom bunk, folded his clothes neatly, and tucked everything back into his bag. He adhered to a system that made sense: civilian attire at the bottom, provided gear in the middle, toiletries on top. None of it helped. That mild sense of unease didn’t disappear.

Was it the sensation of an ominous, looming deadline by which he was supposed to have finished reading his _Blue Book_? No way. Ian’s academic prowess couldn’t hold a candle to Lip’s, but if there was one skill he never had to worry about, it was finishing a book. Their manual for all things army-related was fairly simple, unlike all the math he’d slogged through last year. Ian would have to utilize every spare moment he got just in case any unexpected obstacles arose to slow him down, but he’d get it done. He always did.

Was it that his faux pas with Shandra weighed heavily on his mind despite doing better for the rest of the day? Please. He was a Gallagher. Manipulation was practically hereditary for them, and she had plenty of other recruits on her docket to keep her busy. It simply wasn’t feasible that she would take any interest in a throwaway comment like his. Tons of people probably made that mistake, right? You didn’t just go from being a kid to getting all this adulthood stuff right off the bat. Ian might have been younger than the rest of his peers, but none of them looked like they could be more than nineteen or twenty. They were in the same boat as him, or similar enough. He wasn’t alone. He _wasn’t_ alone.

So, what was it—indigestion? Nerves? Buyer’s remorse?

No, no, and no.

It wasn’t until Ian was sinking beneath the surprisingly adequate covers, the metal frames of their beds squeaking and squealing in protest as a couple dozen guys attempted to get comfortable, that it began to dawn on him. There was only one other possibility, one other consideration he hadn’t taken into account—had _purposely_ not taken into account.

His eyes strayed to where he had stuffed his bag beneath the foot of his bed as instructed, then to the shadowy silhouettes of bodies in the dark, before he slowly sat up to reach for it. The strap scraped across the tiles, and Ian froze when he heard the adjustable plastic belt clang lightly against his bedstead.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nobody moved. Eyes weren’t peering in his direction. None of the officers that couldn’t be too far outside the door came barging into the room to scream in his face.

Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, he pulled his duffel closer and leaned over the side of his bed. The zipper made less noise, although it still seemed deafening against the otherwise unbroken hush that surrounded him, so Ian only opened it just enough to squeeze his hand inside and dig around for his cell phone. They’d been ordered to turn off their personal devices hours ago, and the immediate brightness of the screen made his eyes water as Ian booted it up with the blanket pulled over his head to hide the glow. That minor yet persistent pain marginally intensified at his formless guesses of what he would see…

Nothing.

He saw nothing.

No notifications. No text messages. No missed calls.

Not from his family. Not from…anyone else.

Ian hadn’t really _expected_ them, of course. His siblings weren’t like that. Everybody had their own stuff to do, and they didn’t tend to bug each other unless there was important shit going down—Frank needing to fake his death or Debbie running off with a kid or Carl accidentally-on-purpose setting fire to something in the backyard, for example. No news was good news, in most cases. It meant that limbs were intact, the house remained standing, and a meteor hadn’t annihilated the South Side. As a matter of fact, he should have been _grateful_ to discover that nobody was checking to see if he’d be home for dinner or in _his_ bed tonight or…whatever.

But it hurt this time, just a little. Just enough to _feel_ it.

Maybe it was because he was so much further away than ever before and had no clue when he’d see them again. Maybe it was because they presumably had no idea he was even gone and were too glad that he was out of bed to jinx it by turning that into a bigger deal than it had to be. Maybe it was because a million different things could happen and he wouldn’t know since…he wasn’t there.

Wasn’t that the point, though—to get _out_ of that shitshow? Not theirs in particular, but all the other crap?

And come the fuck on, he’d already explored this and resigned himself to the harsh reality of his situation. What would change by letting them in on what he’d done and where he was? That wouldn’t make everything okay or fix what had sent him packing in the first place or keep him from missing them less than he’d clearly started to. Ian had been right not to call home earlier: a clean break was definitely better for everyone. The alternative meant that Fiona would worry herself sick like always, and Lip would blow up his phone telling him what a fucking moron he was as soon as she told him. They wouldn’t understand that he’d inadvertently presented them with the greatest gift a poor family in their neighborhood could ever hope to receive. After all, it was basic, inarguable math.

One less mouth to feed.

One less sibling to supervise.

One less student to teach, bastard to burden Medicaid, nuisance to ignore, and kid to financially support on anywhere from less than minimum wage to whatever the cup place paid.

They had plenty to worry about, what with Lip deciding what he was going to do with himself and his genius brain and Fiona trying to hold shit together now that she had the legal obligation to take care of Debbie, Carl, and Liam. Their plates were full. Ian couldn’t add his shit to it.

No news _was_ good news. They were busy living their lives, and he needed to focus on living his.

They’d be fine without him. They were already off to a good start.

So, he shut down his phone again. He stowed it in his bag and painstakingly returned his belongings to their mandated storage location. He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes.

He didn’t reflect on Liam’s toy dinosaurs, Carl’s foot hanging off the top bunk, Debbie’s name spelled out in colorful letters, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting through the accordion door to Lip’s room, or the light in Fiona’s that didn’t go out until after she was done making the rounds.

He didn’t imagine her poking her head inside to whisper, “Goodnight, Ian,” like she did on so many nights when he was little.

The first sleep of the rest of his life took some time to arrive, but when it did, it was blissfully dreamless.

***

The rest of Reception Battalion flew past, and Ian couldn’t say he was disappointed. They had a long road ahead, where yelling and impatience and proving their worth would be standard fare. He was ready for it—he had been forever. But there was something decidedly anticlimactic about hours of paperwork followed by feverish reading followed by _more_ hours of paperwork.

There was processing at the medical station, which occupied their entire morning after an unappetizing breakfast of runny scrambled eggs, burnt toast, and oatmeal that had no flavor whatsoever. The experience was oddly similar to getting examined at the clinic: everyone treated him with the same perfunctory air, from the hygienist that x-rayed his teeth for his dental records to the undeniably attractive optician that made sure his vision wasn’t shot to shit. The sole difference was that they weren’t cursed with equipment operating on copious amounts of duct tape and wishful thinking alone.

Then there was herd inoculation—literally. They were all packed into a room together like cattle, a living assembly line where the medical officer at the head of it disinfected your arm, stuck you with a needle, sent you on your way, then took the next person without further ado. One after another after another—lather, rinse, repeat. No privacy or curtains or warning you that it was coming. Disinfect. Needle. Go. It was efficient and impersonal, and Ian enjoyed it a lot more than his subsequent return to the personnel station once they finished eating lunch with sore, burning biceps that may as well have been dead weight at their sides.

If there _was_ a Hell, he was certain it would closely resemble the sparsely decorated, plainly furnished, overcrowded office where they finalized their records.

Never in his life had Ian felt more unprepared to enter the adult world, and not for the first time, he was baffled by how Fiona had managed to work through it all when she’d been even younger than him starting out. _Had_ she ever deciphered the intimidating art that was financial literacy? Was she merely faking it until she made it, pretending to comprehend that shit when it actually threw her for a loop like it did Ian? School definitely hadn’t prepared them: geometry and algebra were useless when he didn’t understand what apparently amounted to the most basic level of personal bookkeeping.

Direct deposit accounts? He’d had a vague idea of what that was before boarding the bus even if it hadn’t occurred to him that he might need one. If he hadn’t, the name would have been a dead giveaway on its own.

That, as it turned out, was nothing. It was a warm-up for the big leagues.

Were the standard twenty-six pay periods sufficient, or did he want to apply for nontraditional remuneration intervals?

Was he planning to invest in savings bonds?

Would he be taking zero deductions for greater tax reimbursement at the beginning of each year? If so, was he positive that he didn’t have any dependents to take into consideration?

How much of an automatic deduction did he want to commit to the Thrift Savings Plan? Would he rather opt out and seek a private 401(k)? Was he prioritizing benefits or accrued interest?

Who would be the primary and secondary beneficiaries on his life insurance policy? Did he want less withheld from his paychecks or the more expensive security for his loved ones?

Did he intend to elect or abstain from the Montgomery G.I. Bill?

Ian’s brain short-circuited in the first five minutes, and he was tempted to inform them that he didn’t speak French or whatever other language all this financial crap was in. The delusion that he could breeze through the registration process as easily as the physical components of his enlistment was effectively shattered as he stammered whatever sounded most appropriate. By the time all was said and done, his head was spinning so fast that his thoughts didn’t know which side of his skull to bounce off, and he made a mental note to Google what exactly he’d just signed up for once he regained some semblance of equilibrium.

Needless to say, it was an unspeakable relief to resort to the relative mindlessness that was collecting his advance pay, picking up his ID and the gear he was expected to shell out for at the troop post exchange, and swinging by the central issue facility to get measured and fitted for his uniform.

The lattermost made him feel like Ned or one of his rich friends, and it…wasn’t the worst thing in the world. More than half his wardrobe was comprised of shit that Lip had worn for years before Ian was old enough to fit into it, ranging in quality from threadbare to passable as recently purchased from Goodwill. From now on, however, all but his fitness attire would be tailored to his exact specifications, courtesy of the U.S. government. The baggy camouflage pants were taken in a couple of inches to hug his hips, though a belt would still be required so that he could attach the kit he needed for one mission or another; his close-fitting shirts didn’t get that way from being shrunk in the wash one too many times. Unlike the scuffed sneakers he’d brought with him and the other pairs he’d abandoned at home, his combat boots needed neither a few weeks to stretch nor balled newspapers in the toe to prevent his foot from slipping around inside.

When Ian looked in the mirror, he didn’t recognize the uniformed, stoic soldier staring out of it. In this instance, that wasn’t so bad. In this instance, he wasn’t lost and confused and battered by a life that took his relative happiness as its cue to keep on swinging.

Private Gallagher was the image of strength.

Private Gallagher was the epitome of courage.

Private Gallagher was the one holding the club, and the universe got to play the bitch for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first days of registration are pretty dull, but now that they're out of the way, Ian will be having far more...fun. What's wrong with fun? ;)


	3. Part 1.2: Christmas

“Gallagher. Eyes up, phone down.”

Ian hurriedly locked the screen, shoved his cell into his pocket, and shot Key’onna an apologetic grin. “Gonna rat me out?”

“You don’t get to salting that sidewalk, I will,” she grumbled, already half finished with her portion while he’d barely started on his. Okay, _maybe_ she had a point.

“I thought battle buddies didn’t snitch on battle buddies,” he teased regardless. She scoffed lightly, and Ian simultaneously basked in the satisfaction of such an astonishing achievement and got to work clearing away the snow that was gradually accumulating on the pavement around them.

In the whopping thirty-six hours they’d known each other, Ian hadn’t heard her laugh once. Key’onna was a lot like Mandy that way. Not the Mandy she was when they met, all flirty confidence and harmless wit, but the version of his best friend he’d said goodbye to four days ago. Hard-earned smiles, barbed jokes, incendiary tempers, endless albeit grudging tolerance for shit they didn’t need to put up with—the two of them were similar in that regard. It was nice. _Familiar_. Where Mandy’s attitude was the direct result of living under the same roof as the boogieman that stalked their neighborhood, however, Key’onna’s had apparently been born from a vastly different set of sympathetic circumstances. After all, she had some pretty big shoes to fill when every generation of her family had served in the army as far back as her however-many-greats-grandfather, who had escaped from slavery to fight for the North during the Civil War. Hers was a lineage of heroes, and Ian figured that he would be a stoic, unflappable, understated powerhouse too if such immense pressure to perform had been hoisted on his shoulders rather than merely the expectation that he _not_ end up as big a drain on society as Frank. That said, he considered anything that got her to crack a smile a fairly major accomplishment.

“Don’t know which army _you’re_ talking about,” she retorted, “but in this one, I’d sell you down the river in a heartbeat.”

“Spoken like a true T.I.,” he observed.

Key’onna didn’t hesitate to gloat, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Shaking his head good-naturedly, Ian adjusted his standard-issue hat to cover his frozen ears and swapped his shovel out for the rock salt canister that had been thrust into his arms when they reported for duty that morning. The purpose of a battle buddy was to have someone in your corner day and night, on and off the battlefield. They’d be your support system, which meant you had to really get a feel for who they were as both a person and a soldier. The process was more than a little awkward, like one of those obnoxious group projects at school where you had to collaborate on something easier done on your own. Making _friends_ had never been part of his job description before, nor had he particularly desired it to be.

But it _was_ a requirement, so no time like the present, right?

“How come you didn’t apply to be an officer? Go to West Point or something?”

At that, her laugh wasn’t as kind, and Ian instantly regretted not starting with something like her favorite color or animal or literally _anything_ else when she replied, “Because West Point is for rich pricks who want to jump the line, not earn their place.”

…Well. That was certainly one way of looking at it.

A moment passed where the determination that had driven him to shoot for the moon a year ago resurged, and Ian had to bite his tongue to prevent any surviving platitudes about perseverance and resolve from spilling out. He knew better than most that it didn’t always matter how hard you tried—life still found fun and interesting methods of fucking you over as soon as it caught you looking in the other direction. Plus, even if he _could_ effectively rebut her conviction that wealth was the issue, Ian didn’t think she’d appreciate him telling her that Lip had been offered the golden ticket to _rich prick_ school because he was the most brilliant person Ian had ever met and could put his money where his big mouth was when it came to robotics.

He’d also have to make up _another_ older brother since _he_ was Lip and definitely hadn’t come close to a shot at the major leagues. No, that argument wasn’t going to work. It left too much room for error in fostering whatever relationship he was already botching and keeping his own story straight. Simple was better. Simple was less likely to end with him shoving his foot in his mouth again and getting arrested for enlisting under a false identity.

“Couldn’t get in, huh?” was what he settled for instead, aiming for levity and unintentionally digging himself an even deeper hole in the process. A heavy silence descended behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to meet her warning glare. As if it needed to be colder out here, it suddenly felt as though the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

_Good going._

“I wa—I mean, my _brother_. He wanted to go there. West Point,” Ian stammered clumsily in an attempt to correct course. This battle buddy stuff was going to be harder than it originally sounded. “Grades weren’t good enough. Turns out he’s kind of an idiot.”

That was putting it mildly. Fortunately, he was good at pulling his shit together when it counted, and a little of the open animosity leaked out of Key’onna’s expression as she watched him with an assessing gaze.

“…GPA,” she finally murmured, refocusing on the task at hand and shrugging like it didn’t really mean anything.

But it did. Ian knew it did. He’d been there, after all—that dark place where you had no choice but to face facts. They weren’t pleasant or pretty; dressing them up with fancy words didn’t soften the blow they dealt when they were shoved down your throat.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not. Good. Enough.

“Pretty dumb, huh?” Huffing in poorly concealed contempt, she gestured for him to hand her the canister, and he mutely obliged. “Shouldn’t have to be a Rhodes Scholar to serve your country.”

“Got that right,” he muttered as he reached for his shovel. It clanged loudly against the concrete thanks to the renewed frustration that he’d believed was behind him, his fingers clutching the handle so tightly that he was distantly surprised it didn’t mold to his grip.

No, it wasn’t fair that you had to graduate at the top of your class or have friends in high places—preferably both—just to serve with the pride and dignity of officer status. It wasn’t right that some letters and numbers were sufficient to prove you incapable, a waste of a seat when there were candidates who couldn’t tie their shoes but had memorized a few answers in time for the test. Ian had worked his ass off in preparation and had earned nothing but disappointment for his efforts.

Too stupid.

Too slow.

Too low.

Not good enough.

Never good enough.

The system was broken. It always had been, and it always would be.

In a just universe, they might have stood a chance. In a just universe, it wouldn’t be like this. Life wouldn’t be a constant struggle to be seen as more than what they’d been born into, happiness wouldn’t come at a price, evil would get what was coming to it, and they’d never feel an ounce of fear.

There was no just universe, though. That much was abundantly clear. This was where they landed, and they could either wallow in it or make the most of what they had.

Ian wasn’t much of an optimist, but he’d spent far too many years letting life beat him down. Not anymore. This wasn’t the end of the world—it was the _beginning_. They were here. They were on the same track, just starting a bit further behind than they would have liked. (And wasn’t _that_ the story of his life?) He was done bemoaning the crap he couldn’t change. It never got him a step closer to what he wanted. Not with West Point or his grades or his parents or…

_No._

Anyway, what was wrong with wanting to feel _good_ about himself for a change? Ian could practically build a boat and sail on the sea of cascading failures he’d racked up over the years, but they rendered his successes all the sweeter. That may have been the most valuable lesson he’d learned after all they’d been forced to endure over the weekend.

Reception Battalion was no walk in the park, but in hindsight, it could have been a lot worse. Paperwork? Overwhelming yet manageable. The physical fitness test? That was always going to be a joke. Thirteen push-ups, seventeen sit-ups, and running a mile in under nine minutes—he could do that with his hands tied behind his back and a blindfold on when he was fifteen.

The waiting had threatened to unhinge him once or twice. It wasn’t exactly downtime since they had a shit ton of reading to fill it, yet the quiet stretches between bouts of incoming orders had nevertheless suffused his mind until random thoughts fired through the empty space so often that he had to go back and reread a few pages that he’d absently skimmed over without comprehending any of it. What was going on at home? Were they dealing with a brand new crisis of the week, or was everyone enjoying some peace before the next struck? Had Lip and Mandy talked out whatever bullshit they were going through? Was Fiona still mad at Jimmy? How likely was it that Carl had to go to the emergency room because he cut off his hand with the knife Ian would never get to teach him how to hold?

There were other questions, too, the kind that had Ian kneading his temples and breathing deeply and setting them aside so he couldn’t leap into that abyss from which there was no return. Reading. He’d needed to finish his reading.

And he had. Hours ahead of everyone else. They’d all been cramming well into the night, well after the lights were supposed to be out, while Ian let the Army Values and Soldier’s Creed lull him to sleep.

Ian wanted to say that he’d fared as well during the shark attack. Instead, he’d merely survived.

They’d been warned. One of the other guys had described it at dinner on Saturday night after the initial terror wore off and they regained enough courage to speak as they ate.

“Make sure your personal shit is in your regulation duffel,” he’d whispered to the rest of the table through a mouthful of flavorless mashed potatoes. They’d all paused for a moment, acting natural when one of the officers marched past their table, and then he’d continued, “My sister said they lock your bag up till graduation. And don’t hold on too tight. They’re gonna give us hell the second we get there.”

Another recruit—Moreno, as Ian later discovered—had quietly demanded, “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

It meant that the second they got off the bus, over a dozen T.I.s were waiting. They’d seized everybody’s luggage and thrown it into the muddy snow a few yards away, screaming for them to locate their own bags amidst the ensuing pandemonium.

Run.

Hurry up.

Get moving.

Thirty seconds.

Pick up the pace.

Fifteen seconds.

Not fast enough.

Start over.

And they had. Twice. Three times. Four. Seven. Twelve. They’d run the maneuver again and again, boarding the bus and getting off the bus and dashing for the pile of discarded duffel bags and hunting for their name. Their legs had trembled. Their fingers had gone numb. The letters on the heaping mounds of green and black blurred together, and their ears had started ringing with increasingly unidentifiable instructions. Ian’s heart raced simply reflecting on it, the noise and the chaos that had surrounded him culminating in a roar so devastatingly penetrating that he hadn’t been able to read, to think, to _move_. Everyone had scrambled aimlessly over each other to avoid the bullhorns that got too close to their heads, and in the end, none of them found their bags. None of them had cared. They’d stood ankle deep in the snow that had fallen overnight, their breaths condensing as they struggled to make out and internalize all the nuances of the insults thrown in their direction.

“That was the biggest joke I’ve seen in thirty years!”

“If we were in enemy territory, you’d all be dead!”

“You stick cotton balls in your ears this morning?”

“How hard is it to find your own name?!”

“My two-year-old could do this in his sleep!”

Useless.

Incompetent.

Worthless.

Not good enough.

The purpose of the exercise was clear despite the grumbling he’d listened to in the barracks that night: to rid them of any misgivings they might have about who was running the show around here and to make them aware, without a shadow of a doubt, that they weren’t the hot shit they thought they were at home. And it had worked, as far as he could tell. The drill sergeants had allowed them an all too brief opportunity to figure out whose bag they’d grabbed instead of the one they’d arrived with and return it to its rightful owner, which they did in record time. They’d subsequently demanded that everyone get on the bus once again and spend ten minutes pondering the importance of teamwork, which they did in silence.

It had only taken three attempts to transfer from the transport to the barracks. Most of them didn’t say a word, but the inescapable idiots that believed they’d get away with it served as an example for the rest of them in what _not_ to do when you were already in pretty deep shit with your commanding officers. Ian had listened to the one-sided conversations he’d been warned about in ROTC and kept his mouth shut. Anybody with half a brain in their head had done the same.

So, yeah. It was a lot. When all was said and done, Ian supposed he could stand to be a little proud of himself. Had his performance been as flawless as he’d endeavored to make it? Not in the slightest. Were there a million things he probably could have done better? Sure. But he’d survived day zero of basic without any spectacular mishaps or glaring catastrophes. That had to count for something, even if it was only his peace of mind.

Now, he just had to make it through the next two weeks of utter boredom and not lose his sanity in the process. Piece of cake.

Or it should have been.

Ian nodded at Key’onna’s offer to get their melting agent refilled so they could hit the officer parking lot before lunch, pulling his phone out and rereading the text message that had arrived right after he woke up that morning to unexpectedly turn his entire day upside down.

> _Have you been home? Feels like I haven’t seen you all weekend._

His heart had skipped a beat at seeing Fiona’s name on his screen, and it stuttered again in a combination of relief and trepidation now. Two hours later, he was no closer to a response that wouldn’t fuck him over ten ways to Sunday. Did he tell her that he had been staying at Mandy’s? The notion filled him with dread considering what had happened last time he went there, but she wouldn’t have any reason to call bullshit even if it really wasn’t the norm. Except for the occasions where Lip treated her like dirt because he was too busy pining for Karen, it was always Mandy who slept at their place. The excuse might work for a while, though. What else could he do? It wasn’t like he’d get away with dropping the army bomb on her. Not right this second, anyway. If he did, she’d demand answers that he would never be able to provide in the brief span that Key’onna was gone. Then _she_ would demand answers that she, in turn, would be obligated to report to their superiors... No, his best bet to cover his tracks was Mandy.

…Unless Fiona told Lip, who would see through that lie in an instant and probably drop by the Milkovich house to verify that Ian was full of it. The latter was unlikely if he was still at odds with Mandy, but the possibility that he might knock on that door grew every day that Ian was away.

 _That_ would be one uncomfortable conversation.

So, Mandy was out after all. Shit.

He had to say something—something _credible_. The Kash and Grab wasn’t open all night, and he hadn’t stayed out too late since he stopped seeing Ned and started actively avoiding the rest of the world because of the wedding. His old study group fallback was definitely out. There was nobody else he’d be with for any significant length of time. It had been too long to claim that they must have missed each other going up and down the stairs.

Three days, to be precise. Nobody in his family had noticed that he was gone for three days.

 _Big surprise_ , he mused. Their house might as well have been a motel with how frequently people came and went as they pleased, from his siblings to random drunkards Frank occasionally brought around to that Chinese lady he’d rented his room out to. Keeping track was a full-time job in itself, and Fiona already had one of those.

Speaking of time…

Exhaling slowly, Ian winced as he pulled off his gloves and the cold air assaulted his hands. He had to make this convincing. Play it cool, like Lip always said. He could do this.

> _Went on a trip_

…It wasn’t the _worst_ he could have come up with, but it left something to be desired. Fiona must have been thinking along the same lines because she got back to him so quickly that he didn’t have a chance to look away from his screen.

> _Where?? Xmas is tomorrow_

Yeah. He was aware of that. _Now_.

In all the excitement, it had completely slipped Ian’s mind that the holidays were coming up, which…was weird. How did he forget about Christmas? Mandy had mentioned it when he stopped by the house to see her. He vaguely remembered Debbie rattling off a million cookie recipes she wanted to try her hand at baking. They’d even received reminders that the base would be closed and their training delayed two weeks until after New Year’s upon their arrival.

It had gone in one ear and out the other, apparently. The stress of pulling himself up by those bootstraps Mandy and Lip sneered at must have wiped it clean from his mind, and here he was, just now remembering that it wasn’t merely Monday. It was Christmas Eve. He’d signed up for the skeleton crew that would keep Fort Leonard Wood operating until January.

And this was the first in a long string of holidays he wouldn’t get to spend eating and talking and watching movies on the couch with his family. Kev and V. Frank, if they bought enough booze for him to sniff out.

Ian swallowed hard and gripped his phone a bit tighter. There was nothing he could do about it now, and he couldn’t say for sure whether he’d have chosen any differently if he’d realized it sooner. Leaving hadn’t been an option. The more he procrastinated, the harder it would be. How much more difficult would he have made it for all of them had he waited until he was eighteen?

A clean break. He had to keep reminding himself that it was a clean break, regardless of the regret he drew in with every breath when he sent yet another insubstantial message.

> _Sorry, gonna miss it_

The phone rang. And rang.

Fiona.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to lie for shit if she could hear him.

Because she’d _hear_ him. She’d know.

She’d force him to come home, where the demons were waiting to drag him down again with their insidious snickering and foreign accents and bloodstained pistols and tattooed knuckles.

He _couldn’t_.

He declined the call.

> _Ian wtf???_
> 
> _Bad reception, can’t talk_
> 
> _When are you coming home?_

Four, eight, twelve years—perhaps never if shit didn’t go in his favor.

> _Don’t know. Soon_

As soon as he was better. As soon as he made something of himself. As soon as he could stand on his own two feet and forget what he’d been.

Not good enough.

> _Ok… What about school?_

School? What was school going to do for him that the army couldn’t? What was school going to teach him about the world that the army wouldn’t cover in spades? He was Lip, but he _wasn’t_. His future was right here, not in some classroom where they cared more about whether he could write a five-paragraph essay on metaphors than teaching him what the hell a 401(k) was.

> _Catch up when I get back_
> 
> _Back from where??_

Ian momentarily considered ceding that much ground. ROTC wasn’t an option, but surely there was nothing wrong with giving her a state? That way, she wouldn’t have to worry about providing a solid answer if DCFS showed up for a home visit or somebody called to report them again. Saying he was on a trip to Missouri with friends was far better than admitting to them that she didn’t know where the fuck he’d run off to, wasn’t it?

He never found out. Footsteps approached, the sound of snow crunching beneath heavy boots much louder than it would have been on a normal day, and he hastily typed one final message before turning his phone off altogether:

> _Having a great time but I’ll text you. Miss you guys!_

“You gonna go through withdrawal when they lock that up?” Key’onna joked drily as she rounded the corner to see him slipping his cell back into his pocket where it belonged.

“Nah,” he replied, picking up his shovel and stepping aside for her to leave a trail of salt where he’d cleared a path. “It’s all good.”

***

It snowed all day and night, and when Ian left the barracks to meet Key’onna for breakfast on Christmas morning, the base was blanketed in an immaculate and as yet undisturbed sheet of white everywhere he turned. That wouldn’t last long: the two of them would be trudging through it tomorrow as soon as they were on duty again, destroying the ambiance with their boots and shovels as ordered. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed, though. In Chicago, the traffic and snowplows and stray dogs would do the same, except they’d leave messy grey (and yellow) masses in their wake that wouldn’t thaw until spring. Here, their shoes met regulation standards for cleanliness, and the majority of the base had opted to go home for the holidays rather than pollute the place with their presence. Even if clearing sidewalks was a real bitch after the first couple of hours, he couldn’t say he minded the view. So, if it took him more time than it should have to arrive at the women’s barracks while he enjoyed the scenery, he’d chalk it up to the early hour and a sleepy start.

Numb fingers and ears notwithstanding, drawing the short straw had plenty of other upsides beyond the breathtaking vista. Maintenance wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped to be doing, but around here, you didn’t ask to be reassigned when you hadn’t earned any stripes yet. It didn’t look so good once you did either, though plenty of soldiers had paid their dues and didn’t particularly care about appearances anymore. As great as it would have been to sit at a warm desk for two weeks until training began, however, there was no denying that the manual labor was good for him. Answering phones and directing calls kept his mouth busy—his brain was another story.

When he worked with his hands, his focus narrowed to exclude the world outside the scope of what he was hauling or shifting or assembling. That was part of what he’d liked about working at the Kash and Grab. Yeah, it was occasionally pure torture if he had nothing to do and no customers to keep him occupied for hours at a time. Mostly, it was where he could unwind, as long as nobody came looking for him and a certain neighborhood nut-job didn’t trash the place in a fit of misplaced rage. Stocking shelves, deconstructing boxes, building displays, hanging posters, moving stock—it was calming. It quieted his nerves and kept him from guessing whether Frank chose that day to break in and would be crashing in his bed when he got home. The fluid motion brushed aside his near-constant concerns that the squirrel fund wouldn’t be full enough this year or that Monica would suddenly appear to spend it all again even if it was. For a few hours, Ian didn’t have to be _him_ or handle everything that came with _being_ him. He was just a pair of hands. A body. A smile.

Simple. Uncomplicated. No shit hitting the fan whenever he turned around. Ian could get used to a bit more of that.

“Thank God we’re off today,” Key’onna groused by way of greeting, walking straight past him the second she emerged from her barracks and clearly expecting Ian to follow. “My arms are killing me.”

“Good workout, though,” he pointed out as he tagged along behind her, which earned him a reluctant nod.

“Just hoping they rotate us sometime. A few more eight-hours, and I’m not gonna be doing any push-ups once we _actually_ get started.”

“Pretty sure we’ll be sitting around the first few days anyway.”

Snorting indelicately, Key’onna shot him an incredulous glance. “As if they’re not gonna have us up in the middle of the night running all over the place as soon as everyone else rolls in.”

There was no arguing with that, so Ian simply grimaced in response. Knowing it was coming and being happy about it were two very different things. But hey, it was all meant to keep them on their toes and make them better soldiers, right? It would be worth the sleep deprivation in the long run.

Well, Ian thought so, anyway. Not everybody was on the same page.

“What was the point of signing up if you didn’t wanna fucking be here?” Davis was asking Moreno when they sat down, laughing around a strip of bacon that…actually tasted okay. Better than okay, as a matter of fact. Unlike the DFAC near their provisional barracks, this one must have had actual chefs in the kitchen since the quality skyrocketed by comparison. It wasn’t gourmet shit by any means, but it was a far cry from just _functional_.

Moreno stuffed more scrambled eggs into his mouth than any orifice should have been able to fit at one time, and Ian pretended to be far more interested in his pancakes than was probably healthy so that he didn’t laugh at Key’onna’s thinly veiled disgust.

It didn’t help that swallowing apparently took too much effort, so the table was showered in specks of yellow as he answered, “If your ass was gonna get wasted or locked up, you’d take door number three too, vato.”

“Not much difference between this and a life sentence,” argued Davis, which prompted another flurry of partially digested protein. Ian barely managed to shunt his tray far enough away to avoid the worst of it. Years of dodging Carl’s wacky experiments at the table were finally paying off.

“Ain’t gonna get shivved for breathing here.”

“Just shot,” Key’onna interjected. For added emphasis, she deliberately tossed a napkin in Moreno’s direction. The guy struck Ian as being a little short on brain cells—such was the inexorable repercussion of spending the last ten years as a user-dealer—but he picked up on the not so subtle hint.

“That ain’t no big thing,” he dismissed her once he’d wiped up the evidence. “Been there. Twice.”

She raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “Twice?”

The grin on his face spoke volumes, yet Moreno felt the need to lift his shirt and show them two circular scars positioned a few centimeters above his pelvis. If Ian was being truthful, he’d guessed that someone half a foot taller than him and twice as broad would be a bit more built, but a layer of flab drooped over the top of his pants so that the old wounds were nearly hidden from view unless you knew what to look for.

“This one”—he pointed towards the wider of the two—“was some fuckface who tried to stiff me on Special K. Chased the bitch three blocks down Edison, bleeding out ‘n’ shit.”

“Why not just let him go?” inquired Ian against his better judgment. A prickle of something… _not right_ was tapping at the inside of his brain, sending him a message he couldn’t quite read.

Contrarily, Moreno seemed overly entertained by the question. “Had a reputation to protect. You let the puta go, the whole neighborhood starts thinking they can start shit. All that business?” He dropped his shirt to give Ian a thumbs-down and blew a raspberry.

_Point taken._

That disquieting sensation heightened.

Brushing off his hands and shoving his tray aside, Davis folded his deceptively scrawny arms on the table and returned them to the subject at hand. “Did you chase down the guy who gave you the other one?”

“Hell, no,” Moreno chuckled. “My old man woulda killed me dead.”

“Your _father_ shot you?” So much for Key’onna’s obvious attempt at ignoring the rest of the conversation.

Ian’s stomach turned when he nodded, and he couldn’t help clenching his fists in his lap as Moreno explained, “Skimmed too much off the top. That shit’ll fly only when it ain’t family.”

Nobody said anything, not that Moreno appeared to notice. He returned to cramming what remained of his now-cold breakfast down his throat while regaling them with the tale of how he’d been collared by Waukegan’s finest and offered a chance at freedom for rolling on his suppliers. Every word had that presence in Ian’s mind knocking harder at his consciousness, begging to be acknowledged—or, more accurately, begging him to acknowledge something else. How familiar this story sounded or where he’d heard about similar antics in his own neighborhood before. That those spiels had thankfully never gotten so far out of control: immunity turning into a shortened sentence, news spreading to his clients and colleagues alike that he was a snitch, the Feds involved with the case recommending service as his sole alternative.

Those stories had different endings, as far as Ian was aware, but that didn’t ease his agitation. Not remotely.

“Buncha free shit for just doing the job? Fuck yeah. Better than floating around in Lake Michigan. Long as we find some pussy or a warm mouth out with the towelheads, I’m cool. Man’s got needs, am I right?” he added with a salacious wink as he nudged Ian with his shoulder.

His stomach didn’t turn this time—it rolled all the way over.

The jumbled emotions that immediately ran him down with the force of a freight train must have slipped past his carefully constructed façade, because Moreno gestured towards his plate and asked, “Yo, you gonna finish that?”

Ian silently shook his head. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

***

_“Run, run Rudolph, Santa’s gotta make it to town.”_

“I am an American soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team.”

_“Santa, make him hurry, tell him he can take the freeway down.”_

“I serve the United St—fuck. I serve the _people_ of the United States and live the Army values.”

_“Run, run Rudolph, ‘cause I’m reelin’ like a merry-go-round.”_

“I will always place the mission first. I…will…” Ian trailed off, hesitantly consulted his _Blue Book_ when his brain wouldn’t cough up the words, and closed his eyes again to continue, “I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade.”

“Goddammit!” shouted Davis three beds down. In lieu of the cards they weren’t allowed to have, a bunch of the guys in their barracks had scrounged up enough paper to MacGyver the closest approximation, although they weren’t likely to last long with him chucking them at Moreno and Khan as everyone else heckled him for his pretty terrible poker skills. “You’re fucking cheating!”

“Come on, man. We can do best six out of ten,” Khan mockingly offered. The bird Davis flipped him seemed like a substantial substitute for _no_.

_“Said Santa to a boy child, what have you been longing for?”_

Inhaling a deep breath, Ian attempted to shut out all the noise and focus on memorizing this shit to stay ahead of the game. It was obviously a losing battle, what with the blaring radio they’d been granted for the holidays and the raucous competition, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give it a shot anyway.

Better than digging himself a deeper hole than the one that had been doing its best to draw him down into its depths all afternoon and evening.

_“All I want for Christmas is a rock and roll electric guitar.”_

“I am an American soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team.”

_“And then away went Rudolph, a-whizzin’ like a shooting star.”_

“Wanna switch it up? Can try Go Fish, or— _Jesus_!”

“Asshole.”

“Don’t break him—that’s the T.I.’s job.”

“I serve the people o—”

“Aw fuck, you ripped it!”

“It’s fucking paper. Who gives a shit?”

_“Run, run Rudolph, ‘cause I’m reelin’ like a merry-go-round.”_

“I serve…”

“No way you get a flush three games in a row. It’s mathematically impossible.”

“Maybe you fucked up the cards. Ever think of that?”

“I’m not the dumbass that made ‘em.”

“You crybabies gonna whine all night, or are we dealing another round?” Moreno haughtily chimed in, snickering when they merely grumbled and settled down for temporarily quieter chaos.

Violins replaced Chuck Berry, ironically reflecting the shift, and Ian rubbed at his eye to ease the twitch that he could feel coming on. _God, finally._

 _“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,”_ crooned the lady on the radio, her voice sad and soothing in a way that at once mollified his nerves and squeezed his heart in an invisible iron vise. Catching a break was out of the question tonight, from the looks of it.

His irritation was misplaced at best. Ian knew that. He really wouldn’t have minded the loud music or the laughter or the intermittent invitations for him to join in the fun under different circumstances. Growing up in his house, he’d learned to tune that stuff out most of the time. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to brush them off either—not entirely. They all thought he was nuts for working on Christmas instead of dicking around like everybody else, but that wasn’t such a bad thing. They could see he meant business, that he was here for a _reason_. Ian could withstand the minimal amount of shit they gave him over it so long as he didn’t have to wrestle with the blank mental slate where cards couldn’t distract him anywhere near as effectively as he needed them to. Cramming useful shit into his head was supposed to shove all the other garbage into a corner where he didn’t have to look at it, didn’t have to think about it, didn’t have to remember that it even existed.

_“Let your heart be light.”_

Games wouldn’t help. Conversations would run out of steam, fizzle away, and leave him alone with the shadow of his demons. Ian needed something else, something solid and tangible that would keep his brain engaged until their drill sergeants returned to do it for him. He needed something…something that was…

Something not…

Something not _Mickey_.

Fuck, why was it always Mickey? When Hurricane Monica decimated the house and Frank reminded him that studying wasn’t a stopgap for stupidity and Ian was nothing but another of those _warm mouths_ —it was always Mickey he turned to.

 _“Next year all our troubles will be out of sight,”_ she promised, and Ian tamped down the urge to throw his book at the fucking stereo. Maybe _hers_ would be. His seemed bound and determined to haunt him forever in spite of his best efforts to lose them.

He’d done well for the last few days. There had been so much going on that he literally didn’t have the time to think about Mickey. What he was doing or how he was holding up under his father’s thumb and the overbearing odor of his wife’s perfume that Ian could still smell a few hundred miles from home… They hadn’t been on his radar, and that was good. It was _great_ to anticipate the future, not reflect on the past.

Until today.

_“Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the Yuletide gay.”_

Letting his _Blue Book_ fall into his lap, Ian leaned his head back against the wall and eyed the bottom of the bunk above his in defeat. He should’ve been stronger than this, but instead he was simply fooling himself like always. As if a weekend would cure him of what he’d been sick with for two years. That might have been an adequate mourning period if he were Mickey, who was more than capable of flipping his feelings on and off as easily as a light switch. Or Fiona? She slapped a smile on her face and never let anybody see that she wasn’t the expert juggler she pretended to be.

But he wasn’t Mickey. He wasn’t Fiona.

He was Ian. Not smart enough, not old enough, not good enough Ian. The _P_ stitched onto his fatigues didn’t change that.

_“Next year all our troubles will be miles away.”_

He had never asked Mickey how the Milkoviches celebrated Christmas. It hadn’t occurred to him since he’d been in juvie for the last one. Even if he hadn’t, Ian probably would have chickened out. It seemed like the sort of question that Mickey would have brushed off or insulted him for posing before… Well, _before_. He couldn’t really see them putting up a tree or stringing lights along the detritus in their side yard, that was for sure. Mandy had mentioned her dad pawning their gifts at one point, and Ian irrationally envisioned a stockpile of secondhand guns and hunting knives amidst a sea of colorful paper that clashed terribly with everything about them. Did they sit down to dinner together? Did they gather in front of the TV to watch cheesy Christmas movies like Lip had to at the Jacksons’ house a couple years ago? That _definitely_ didn’t sound like them. It was far more likely that they passed the day like any other: Terry got shitfaced while everyone else went about their business.

Maybe that was how Mickey had spent Christmas this year. Or maybe he was sitting in his bed too, staring at his ceiling and pondering what Ian had done all day.

 _Yeah, right_ , he scoffed inwardly.

_“Once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore.”_

In the end, it was honestly for the best that Ian didn’t know any more about the Milkovich family than he’d already been exposed to. Nightmares like that tended to get worse the more you explored them, not better.

Except that would make his life too easy, and if there was one thing Ian could be certain of, it was that life would take it easy on him when he was dead.

Those holes he hadn’t filled in and the gaps he hadn’t had the balls to bridge? His idle brain did the work for him, tormenting him with images of a happy family and a Mickey that had forgotten him with unsettling speed—images that were exactly what Ian had prepared himself for when he left but shook him regardless—images he couldn’t _imagine_ being true and yet…

What if they were? What if that was Ian’s fault?

If he’d stayed, they could have hung out. Maybe. If his wife was working. If Terry drank himself into a stupor. If Mickey didn’t shove him right out the door the moment they were done fucking. If Ian could stand the sight of that damn gold ring on his finger.

If. There were so many ifs.

_“Faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”_

This could have been their first Christmas together _if_ they hadn’t been caught or _if_ Svetlana hadn’t gotten knocked up or _if_ Mickey had listened to him and ditched his wedding while he had the chance. It may have been optimistic to the point of foolishness, but perhaps they could have figured out how to make everything okay again _if_ Mickey had been willing to work with him.

_“Someday soon, we all will be together.”_

Jesus, what was wrong with him? He’d been over this: it _was_ foolish. What did he really think was going to happen—Mickey would just move into his house with him and the rest of his family while Terry was none the wiser? Celebrate the holidays as if their lives weren’t a fucking mess? They were closer to rolling out that blanket and looking for shooting stars. It never would have flown even _if_ the Mickey he’d walked away from on Thursday was the same as the one he’d lost months prior.

There was no future there. No hope or promise that there ever would be.

There was only shame. There was only hiding. There was only secrecy.

He couldn’t do it again. He _wouldn’t_ do it again. Not for anybody, and especially not for Mickey.

_“If the fates allow.”_

His breathing was uneven. His vision was bleary. His jaw ached where his teeth were grinding together.

This was so fucking dumb. _He_ was so fucking dumb. Why was he bothering with this crap? Why was it still in his head—why did he _care_? It was over. He’d sworn to move on. Repeatedly. The rest of his life wasn’t going to be about Mickey Milkovich surrendering or the fact that Ian wasn’t enough to save him from having to.

The reset button had washed away his family and his home and the guy he thought might just love him, so _why_ couldn’t he _let it go_?

_“Until then, we’ll have to muddle through someho—”_

Ian couldn’t take anymore. It was too much. Everything was _too much_.

Crinkling paper.

Carefree laughter.

Playful jeering.

The heat from the air vent.

The weight of the book in his lap.

His brain.

His skin.

This stupid fucking song.

Heedless of the hour, Ian bolted out of bed and threw on his coat, letting his feet carry him out into the frigid night where silence pressed against his eardrums as heavily as the memories that did their level best to smother him. His fingers twitched restlessly inside his fleece-lined pockets, and he would have killed for a cigarette if they weren’t contraband that would get his ass in major trouble for merely having a pack on his person. Whatever. They would only solve one of his problems anyway. The countless others? Those weren’t going anywhere. They would be here to keep him company once the cancer set in.

Not like Mickey.

Against his will, his hands decided that his phone was an adequate placeholder for nicotine, and Ian stared unblinking at the picture he’d taken with Mickey over the summer when life was good—the first and last photo he had of the two of them. It was all that remained to prove that he hadn’t dreamt up the whole thing. And shivering in the cold, dizzy with the quiet, he afforded himself a moment to wonder…

Where did _that_ Mickey go? The one who had kicked George’s ass when he found Ian plowing it? Who followed him on his date with Ned for the same reason—he was _jealous_ , even if he’d never admit it aloud? Who grinned because Ned had uttered the magic word that officially justified beating the shit out of him in Mickey’s messed up head? Who was elated because Ian had followed him rather than stick around to be a witness?

Where was the Mickey who cared about him and didn’t really mean all that _warm mouth_ shit?

Where was the Mickey who put him first whenever he could swing it and didn’t expect him to be his paramour, forever standing a step behind his wife and ten behind his father?

Where was the Mickey who said, “The fuck we gotta take a picture for?”

Where was the Mickey who rolled his eyes when Ian made some stupid excuse about posterity yet humored him nonetheless?

The Mickey who might have loved him, not that it made a damn bit of difference now.

He’d evaporated. His resonant echo stuck around to plague Ian, but he had dissolved into fleeting mist as though he had never been there at all.

Maybe it _was_ all a dream.

What Ian _should_ have done was delete the picture. That was what happened with exes, right? He’d never really had one, so he couldn’t be positive. His relationships with Kash and Ned hadn’t been like that, and anything else didn’t really qualify as a _relationship_ to begin with. If Mandy’s reaction to those photos of Lip on Karen’s Facebook was anything to go by, then he needed to get rid of it. Now. Out of sight, out of mind. No more ghosts of the past to dredge up because he never had to see them again. The final cord cut. The last reminder erased.

Ian tapped the picture in his album and ignored how his heart seemed to falter in his chest as it expanded to fill his screen.

He pressed the little blue trashcan in the corner.

The confirmation box asked him if he was sure, and his thumb hovered over it. And hovered.

His not-quite-smiling face waited to see what he’d do while eternally playing it cool. Mickey’s judged him, and Ian could hear his voice inside his own head saying, “Scared of a goddamn picture, huh, Gallagher? Fucking pussy.”

Scared? No way. Ian was a soldier. He didn’t have to be scared anymore.

 _It’s just a picture_ , he reminded himself with a huff as he exited the app and let sleeping dogs lie. One of them, at least. To the others that were vying for his attention now that he’d opened the Pandora’s Box of his mind, he sent a single text:

> _Merry xmas Fiona_

Ian wasn’t expecting an answer right away, but his phone vibrated sooner than he could turn it off and go inside. It was a pleasant surprise, though, the kind that he desperately needed right about now. Instead of asking him a million questions or following up after yesterday’s pseudo-conversation, all Fiona replied with was a photo of her own.

His family was awkwardly pressed together on the couch, posing with huge smiles on their faces. Kev and V were at the edge near the front door, the former pointing mock-menacingly at the camera while V smacked him for it. There was a sparse twig of a tree in the nook by the stairs, half-decorated with lights and ornaments that Ian could feel in his hands from how many years he’d helped hang them. Empty beer bottles littered the desk in the corner, and there was popcorn scattered all over the floor where they hadn’t cleaned up after stringing it together for garland as they always did on Christmas morning.

The scene wasn’t Christmas-card perfect. There weren’t any matching sweaters, Jimmy was nowhere to be seen, and Ian noticed the worried edge to Lip’s expression where his eyes were staring into Ian’s soul even at this distance. Liam had a Cheeto up his nose. Carl’s grin erred on just this side of maniacal. Debbie needed braces that Ian would be able to buy her someday now that he was making real money.

That was okay. They didn’t need identical outfits or a pristine house. A Gallagher party was a Gallagher party, and home was home. It didn’t have to be Christmas-card perfect—it was just…perfect.

And if Ian fell asleep that night to the dull glow of his phone propped up against the steel support for the top bunk, nobody was going to say anything. He wasn’t the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Battle buddies are a thing.  
> 2\. Shark attacks are no longer a thing. They were recently discontinued for not promoting the trust and teamwork that basic training is meant to foster. Since this is the end of 2012, however, it would have still been around.  
> 3\. Yes, I said 2012. After extensive research into the timeframes on the show, it appears that his absence was from December of 2012 through April of 2013. Also, Ian was born in 1996, which would have made him 16 in 2012, turning 17 in 2013. (Which he was about to when s4 began.) Yes, I made a timeline. Yes, I am indeed insane.  
> 4\. The songs Ian hears in this chapter are [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVu4c7dhDRE) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxxTHzERTsk). I am a firm believer in Judy Garland supremacy.


	4. Part 1.3: Smoke

The day after Christmas, Ian settled into something of a routine. It would be torn to shreds once Red Phase began, but the structure was comforting in the meantime.

He woke up at six to an unfamiliar lack of fuss and noise. No one yelled that breakfast was ready or scrambled for the upstairs bathroom or slammed doors as they rushed here and there. Drama didn’t rain down from the ceiling like mold in the humid summers, and the permanent stench of Frank fresh off a bender didn’t pervade every room. There was heat because the government had the money to pay its electric bill without being issued a final notice and warm water in the showers that never ran cold. It was quiet for an enclosed space where about twenty other guys were all dragging on their fatigues and preparing themselves for the day ahead. They got ready in relative silence, ate at the DFAC in relative silence, and then split up for their duty stations in relative silence. It could be downright eerie and definitely took some getting used to, but Ian liked the monotony well enough. It was a nice change of pace from the hectic brand of bedlam that Gallaghers instinctively courted.

From seven until four, he shoveled and salted with only Key’onna for company. When there was no more snow to shift around, they mopped up the melted ice puddles that inevitably tracked into every building on the training campus with critical personnel that always had to be on site. It was grueling, tedious work that left them with plenty of opportunities to do what battle buddies were supposed to—talk, commiserate, and bond. They learned a lot about each other in the process, by which Ian meant that _he_ learned a lot about Key’onna while she learned the bare minimum about him. He wasn’t actively attempting to conceal anything so much as sticking to his guns on simplicity. If he told her too many stories, he’d reach a point where he slipped up and contradicted his entire fabrication. Not today or tomorrow or next week, but eventually. Whether it was mentioning Lip in passing or something that had happened far too recently for him to actually be eighteen as he claimed, there was no good way to approach the subject of his own background without potentially setting a match to the narrative he had to build for the sake of continuity. Besides, she didn’t want to hear that crap anyway. Their shortcomings with regards to West Point’s admission requirements notwithstanding, he could say with absolute certainty that they didn’t have enough in common to make it worth the effort. A middle-class girl from Indianapolis who could trace her family tree back to the nineteenth century, had never missed a meal unless it was by choice, and grew up with a mom and dad who gave two shits? Not exactly the kind of person he’d expect to comprehend what it was like for a bunch of kids to fend for themselves because their deadbeat parents decided booze and pills were more interesting, and Ian wasn’t eager to explain either.

Unfortunately—yet unsurprisingly—Moreno ended up being more his speed as far as upbringings were concerned. Ian didn’t need to go out of his way to discover that: it was all the guy talked about during the hour-long lunch break that he sincerely wished they were able to skip. They had to be in peak physical condition, though, so Ian had no alternative except scarfing down his food as quickly as proper manners allowed and doing his best not to hear all the stories that hit too close to home. Moreno might have been born and raised in Waukegan, but there was no real difference between him and just about everybody who grew up on the South Side. His body language was aggressive or lackadaisical with very few stops in between; when he wasn’t grinning arrogantly, he had a glare that could curdle milk at a glance. Anyone who made the terrible mistake of striking up a conversation with him had to be pretty thick-skinned since he had no filter whatsoever and didn’t appear to realize that some topics were better left alone. Moreno ignored social cues like a pro, didn’t care about offending anybody, and could even give Frank a run for his money in the racism department despite his heritage. He was loud. He was abrasive. He was assertive and saw himself as his own boss rather than the officers that would likely make it their life’s work to chisel away at that confidence in the coming weeks. Being around him was akin to sitting near a raging fire or how Kash had described taking his kids to the Skydeck: smothering, as if there wasn’t enough space for you inside your skin when an inescapable and all-encompassing presence was invading your senses. Although Ian was rapidly becoming an expert at shrugging off his behavior and listened patiently while Key’onna complained about it later, there was no hiding altogether. Moreno was simply too much like… Well, he was simply too much, that was all.

Ian was hard-pressed to put him out of his mind over the rest of their shift, especially if his egregiousness really lit Key’onna up, but he generally went into their independent physical training time with a clear head. From four until six, Ian lost himself to working out in the massive gymnasium they would be using while the weather was too cold to be outside. (If somebody didn’t fuck that up for them, of course.) He ditched the disquieting sensation that made him want to crawl out of his body at the same time each day and let the knife in his chest retract; his breathing came easier, and he was able to focus on what was most important.

Preparation. Success. Getting where he needed to be. Staying ahead of the curve.

Structure. Organization. Order.

He could do this.

“Loyalty?”

“Bear true faith and allegiance to the U.S. Constitution, the army, your unit, and other soldiers,” Ian fired back.

Key’onna nodded, took a bite of her dinner, and prompted, “Duty?”

“Fulfill your obligations.”

“Respect?”

“Treat people as they should be treated.”

“Selfless service?”

“Put the welfare of the nation and the army before your own.”

“And?”

Blinking, Ian echoed, “And…?”

“The nation, the army, _and_?” she clarified, a nearly imperceptible smirk quirking up at the corner of her mouth.

_Fuck. Not again._

He’d stayed up later than he should have the previous night hammering the exact terminology into his brain, but for whatever reason, this one always eluded him.

Ian speared a broccoli stalk on the end of his fork in frustration, his leg bouncing beneath the table as though the answer was stuck in his knee and merely had to be shaken loose. That would have been ideal. Instead, he might as well have been trying to recite the Declaration of Independence off the top of his head for all the good it did him.

“Give up?” asked Key’onna, a teasing edge to her question when his silence apparently spoke for him.

There was a split second where it was like being back at home with Lip gently taunting him for not remembering a theorem they’d gone over at least thirty times already, and he scanned the room to confirm that no one was watching before he flipped her off, holding his hand low to the table so nobody else spotted him. There were no explicit rules against cursing—if anybody had a right to, they did. Even so, they were supposed to be setting a professional example and making the army look good. Talking like he did in his neighborhood didn’t really fall in line with the _respect_ or _integrity_ that they would be upholding as part of the Seven Core Army Values Ian couldn’t seem to keep from leaking out of his head like water in a colander.

“Fine. What did I miss?” he eventually capitulated with a sigh. At least she didn’t make him feel worse about forgetting.

“Subordinates.”

…Right. Subordinates. The one that he should have remembered because it didn’t make any sense.

“We _are_ the subordinates,” he argued futilely. 

“Values don’t care,” Key’onna predictably scolded. “Nation, army, and subordinates. Honor?”

“Live up to the Army values,” he recited as he pushed his food around his plate without eating it. No fucking excuses, warranted or otherwise. He needed to learn this shit or he’d be in big trouble. How hard was it to get a few rules to stick?

“Integrity?”

“Do what’s right, le—”

“Unless there’s bread in it for you,” interjected Moreno, noisily dropping his tray on the table and kicking a chair out to sit with them. His mischievous smirk was altogether shameless when he continued, “And then don’t get your ass caught.”

Perfect. This was _sure_ to help his concentration.

Ian was torn between slamming his head on the ground so that unconsciousness would graciously take him in its embrace and simply walking away. Neither would foster the camaraderie that they had to build in order to get through training together, but it had been a long day and Moreno turning shit on its head was only penciled in for lunchtime. So, he opted for the most comparable course of action and took advantage of Key’onna’s sudden distraction to pluck the _Blue Book_ from her hands, immediately sticking his nose in it. If the last couple of weeks had taught him anything, it was that he really didn’t want to stray into the no-man’s land that existed between them anyway. No good would come of it.

“Think you could _pretend_ to take this seriously for, like, one minute?” she disparaged him for possibly the hundredth time since Christmas. If it made any difference whatsoever, Ian would have found her determination admirable.

Moreno shrugged. “I’m taking it serious.”

“Give me a break.”

“Hey, just ‘cause I ain’t no goody two-shoes—”

“It’s called dignity. You should try it sometime.”

“I got plenty of dignity.”

“In the _hood_ , maybe.”

“Yeah, in the hood. Like you been there, rich bitch?”

_“Personal courage_ ,” Ian read silently, although it was far too late. There was no blocking those two out once they got going. “ _Face fear, danger, or adversity (physical or moral).”_

Wow. How appropriate was that?

“Shouldn’t Davis be babysitting you?”

Moreno tore into a chicken breast as if he’d pulled it from a bucket of KFC, silverware and decorum be damned. “Nah, pussy went back to the barracks. Headache or some shit.”

_“With physical courage, it is a matter of enduring physical duress and at times risking personal safety.”_ Yeah. Definitely ironic as fuck.

He heard Key’onna take a deep breath that didn’t seem to calm her at all. “You’ve got _one_ job until training starts.”

“And I do it,” Moreno argued, oblivious as usual. “Bathrooms in the exchange? You could eat off those fucking toilets.”

“I _meant_ taking care of your battle buddy.”

Ian shoved his face deeper into the book, the hair on the back of his neck standing up in light of all the _physical duress_ that was undoubtedly about to risk somebody’s _personal safety_. Given that Key’onna’s favorite pastime was citing regulation, it was impossible for Moreno to win this match. Now, if only _he_ could figure that out.

_“Facing moral fear or adversity may be a long, slow process of continuing forward on the right path, especially if taking those actions is not popular with others.”_

“His head hurts. He ain’t dying.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she retorted, and her disdain transformed into a pretty disturbing imitation of the officers waiting to sink their teeth into the other new recruits that would be joining them on Monday. “ _Soldier’s Blue Book_ , battle buddy responsibilities, bullet number one: _never_ leave your buddy alone.”

“Are you fucking kidding? I don’t see you sleeping in Gallagher’s bunk.”

Of course, they weren’t going to leave him out of it. That would have been asking too much.

“Bullet number four: know the whereabouts of your buddy at all times,” was her automatic response. “Not our fault men are pigs so we can’t share barracks.”

_“You can build your—"_

Wait. She’d memorized the bullet numbers? Ian was still working on keeping the expectations straight in his head along with everything else they needed to know by heart, yet she had _that_ committed to memory?

It was apparently going to be another late night.

“Please, like anybody gonna touch a walking army encyclopedia,” sneered Moreno, steering her expertise in the exact opposite direction. 

“Excuse me?”

_“You can build your personal courage by daily standing up for and acting upon the things that you know are honorable.”_

…Did preventing Key’onna from leaping over the table to claw out Moreno’s eyes count? Because Ian had a feeling they were hurtling towards the point of no return on that.

One of those buddy guidelines—he didn’t know _which_ , but one of them—said it was his duty to ensure that Key’onna was safe and free from harm. Admittedly, Moreno was in more danger here if he continued flaunting his utter inability to shut his mouth, but heated altercations would put both of them on the fast track to formal reprimands. Formal reprimands wouldn’t look good on her record, and a poor record would get her assigned to the worst positions rather than what she deserved. Long-term? He supposed there was just enough harm to make doing the _honorable_ thing imperative.

So, Ian slapped the book shut, the flimsy laminated paper interrupting them as he rose to his feet. “I’m not feeling so good either. Wanna head back to the barracks?”

“…Yeah, sure,” Key’onna hesitantly agreed. For a second, it looked like she couldn’t decide between irritation that he didn’t let her put Moreno in his place or relief at the reminder that their conversation wasn’t private. Regardless, she visibly bit her tongue when their interloper made some smart-ass remark about nobody being able to take a joke and followed Ian out of the DFAC.

Well, until they were by themselves, their shoulders hunched around their ears while they struggled to stave off the icy wind that blew straight through their gear as if it were nothing. 

“He’s such a piece of crap,” she grumbled. “Who does he think he is?”

Ian shrugged noncommittally. She had the breathing space to toss around insults, but he had to share a room with the object of her disdain. For him, it was best to follow Lip’s reassuring advice to play it cool in the face of the insistent urge to rip his own hair out anytime Moreno was around. Ten weeks wasn’t _that_ long. 

Kicking a clump of compressed snow towards the road where it shattered into hundreds of pieces that sparkled in the streetlight, she took the hint and murmured, “Thanks for the assist. Can’t stand that guy.”

“Couldn’t tell.” Ian leaned sideways to nudge her shoulder with his, and she blew out a harsh breath, gently reciprocating.

“Just… If he doesn’t want to be here, why’d he bother?”

“You really want him to tell us again?”

Key’onna rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. He won’t make it one week into BCT before they throw him out on his butt. Without a court martial, _if_ he’s lucky.”

While he didn’t disagree, Ian nevertheless observed, “You never know. He might pull it together by then.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s this or prison, right?”

He was treated to one of her rare laughs for that, and she shook her head incredulously as she retorted, “He’s just some street thug. He _belongs_ in prison.”

Ian fell a few paces behind when his steps faltered, staring at the back of her head with a sinking sensation in his gut. Half the people he’d grown up with qualified as _just some street thug_. Shit, a few of their neighbors probably would have included _him_ in that tally—his entire family, too. None of the Gallaghers shied away from doing what was necessary to survive. Conning some guy with a truck full of meat that could feed the whole neighborhood for six months or making off with milk and butter while V flashed her boobs at the pervert that delivered to the mini-marts on the South Side or stealing newspapers off all the front porches on their block so they could scavenge every coupon imaginable. That was how they operated. That was their way of life. 

And he could list plenty of people who’d done worse—who _did_ worse on a daily basis. True thugs by every definition. Future inmates by every forecast.

Unless you got close to them. Unless you expended the time and energy to _know_ them. Unless you unearthed the heart that hid beneath the bluster and the desperation to endure beneath the methods by which they managed it.

The smile beneath the smirk.

The terror beneath the arrogance.

The slumped shoulders beneath the weight of that chip they hefted around.

“Keep up, Gallagher!”

Ian surfaced from his musings to see Key’onna impatiently waiting for him on the corner and jogged to catch up. He could have told her she was wrong. He could have explained that not everybody had been born with the good fortune of knowing whether they’d have dinner to look forward to at night or the stale crumbs at the bottom of a cereal box. He could have pointed out that sometimes you made tough decisions to secure a bed to sleep in under a roof that wasn’t made of plastic or cardboard. He could have taught her that there was no alleged moral high ground in the _hood_ she’d so condescendingly referenced. He could have assured her that whatever she might believe, a lot of _street thugs_ had hearts that shone brighter than the richest shitheads on Lake Shore Drive.

But he didn’t. He was right before: some people simply wouldn’t understand.

***

One hundred thirty-seven.

One hundred thirty-eight.

_“Hey, it’s uh… It’s me? Your brother? Remember me?”_

One hundred thirty-nine.

One hundred forty.

_“Just thought I’d let you know that you missed out on a pretty fucking great New Year’s party last night.”_

One hundred forty-one.

One hundred forty-two.

_“Frank didn’t show up for a change. Figure he probably got wasted someplace else and slept under the L or something. The hospital called and said he left, so…who knows?”_

One hundred forty-three.

One hundred forty-four.

_“Anyway… Debs has been asking about you. Carl says you were supposed to come back and teach him how to shank somebody? I hid your knife in the attic just so he doesn’t get any ideas.”_

One hundred forty-five.

One hundred forty-six.

_“I enrolled. In, uh…in college. Go get educated, see how all those rich assholes on the other side live. Classes start on Monday. It’s here in Chicago, so…I won’t be far. Train ride away.”_

One hundred forty-seven.

One hundred forty-eight.

_“Listen, Ian…”_

One hundred forty-nine.

One hundred fifty.

_“Fuck.”_

One hundred fifty-one.

One hundred fifty-two.

_“Gimme a call, okay? Or text Fiona? Let us know you’re doing okay.”_

One hundred fifty-three.

One hundred fifty-four.

He had.

One hundred fifty-five.

One hundred fifty-six.

Ian had sent a benign message to Fiona and received an equally benign message in response. She didn’t ask. He didn’t tell. Maybe she was worried that he wouldn’t text again if it seemed like she was giving him the third degree. Maybe she was busy and didn’t give a shit as long as he was breathing. The freedom was nice either way.

One hundred fifty-seven.

One hundred fifty-eight.

Calling Lip had been out of the question, even if it elicited a twinge of regret and guilt from his conscience. Where Fiona apparently trusted him not to end up dead in a ditch, the chances that Lip would offer him the same consideration were slim to none. After all, it wasn’t like he couldn’t guess why Ian had gone. If he hadn’t, then there probably would have been more expletives and insults in the voicemail he’d left on Tuesday. But there weren’t. He’d sounded…quiet.

One hundred fifty-nine.

One hundred sixty.

Ian wouldn’t say that he’d listened to it _repeatedly_ or anything, just like it wasn’t what had him up at three in the morning for the second night in a row doing push-ups and trying his best not to wake anybody else.

One hundred sixty-one.

One hundred sixty-two.

Okay, so he’d replayed it a handful of times when he had nothing else to do and he needed the reminder that he had made the right choice for his family.

One hundred sixty-three.

One hundred sixty-four.

Then Key’onna’s comment about thugs had simmered at the edge of his consciousness for a couple days, and he couldn’t help listening _one_ more time. Because Lip was a thug too—a thief and a con and a low-level dealer when it suited him. It was necessary. They needed cash to pay the property taxes and buy groceries or a suitably underwhelming robot to exact revenge on the douchebags that looked down their noses at the South Side as if their lives were so much better.

One hundred sixty-five.

One hundred sixty-six.

Now, he was going to college. All of Mandy’s hard work and nagging had paid off, and he was going to become a successful, wealthy asshole as opposed to remaining a delinquent one for the rest of his life. Ian was happy for him. It was what he deserved, whether he actually appreciated it or not.

One hundred sixty-seven.

One hundred sixty-eight.

It was sort of funny when he stopped and thought about it: life was really starting to repay them for all the shit it had put them through since they were born. Fiona had a job that made her feel accomplished, or so it had seemed when her voice had drifted up between the floorboards to where he’d lain in his bed and counted all the microscopic cracks in the peeling paint by his window. Lip was evolving into a collegiate brainiac and would finally be able to put the talent and knowledge he’d accumulated over the years to use in a more meaningful, less illicit manner.

One hundred sixty-nine.

One hundred seventy.

And Ian was here, right where he wanted to be.

One hundred seventy-one.

One hundred seventy-two.

Sort of. Having spent the entire day hauling mattresses into the neighboring barracks and cleaning the bathrooms with everybody else in preparation for the other units arriving this week, it would have been fantastic if he could sleep.

One hundred seventy-three.

One hundred seventy-four.

In a little over twenty-four hours, they would begin Red Phase in earnest. No more comparatively useless administrative tasks as they whiled away the hours that the base was closed; no more setting their own schedules as long as they fell in line with what their temporary management dictated. From here on out, they’d work nonstop. They were going to be tested in the most brutal fashions—physically, emotionally, and mentally. It was vital that he go into this well-rested and ready for anything.

One hundred seventy-five.

One hundred seventy-six.

Easier said than done.

One hundred seventy-seven.

One hundred seventy-eight.

A major downside to leaving on such short notice? Ian hadn’t given himself an opportunity to cut back on smoking in advance, so he was jonesing for a cigarette at all hours now. Lighting up had become a habit for him a couple years ago, but he didn’t qualify as an addict by any means, not when Lip and Fiona smoked a hell of a lot more than him. His body didn’t care. Two weeks’ abstinence under his belt was taking its toll with unanticipated ferocity. There was this…this constant _vibration_ beneath his skin that had cropped up while he wasn’t paying much attention and never seemed to go away, first with the thrill of enlisting and now with this. When he was busy, it was easier to ignore, and he could forget about it for hours at a time as he threw himself into everything that had to be done.

One hundred seventy-nine.

One hundred eighty.

The moment he attempted to lie down and get some sleep, however, every muscle in his body tensed and twitched. His mind wouldn’t shut off, his eyes wouldn’t close, and his only recourse was to _move_.

One hundred eighty-one.

One hundred eighty-two.

He made it to four hundred ninety-eight last night. If he stayed focused, he might top five before morning _and_ exhaust himself to the point where his body would be too tired to recall that he was ostensibly going through withdrawal or detoxing or whatever. He hoped so, anyway. He was going to need three whole pots of coffee to make it through each day if this continued.

One hundred eighty-three.

One hundred eighty-four.

Then again, the spare hours weren’t such a bad thing, were they? There were myriad responsibilities at the forefront of his mind, all jabbing him in his nicotine-deprived brain like a new and obnoxious form of acupuncture. He’d memorized the Army Values and Soldier’s Creed; he could recite the Warrior’s Ethos and sing the Army Song slightly off tune. Anything that had a red star next to it in the _Blue Book_ , Ian had practically etched onto the insides of his eyelids—but he couldn’t regurgitate every bullet in order like Key’onna could. He couldn’t preach all the regulations and rules they were expected to abide by the way she rattled them off as though it was the simplest task in the world. No, they weren’t _required_ to, but… There was important shit they had to know offhand even if memorization wasn’t a necessity, like appropriate behavioral standards and the nutritional proportions with which to structure their diet and guidelines for how to take care of themselves from every conceivable medical standpoint. The book covered all the minutiae, right down to a diagram on how to properly floss his teeth, and Ian wanted every last bit of it in his head for whenever it came in handy on the fly. Lip would be able to do it, and…he _was_ Lip.

One hundred eighty-five.

One hundred eighty-six.

There were so many tenets that the part of him not fully absorbed in the process of memorizing them wondered how he was the only recruit in his barracks having trouble sleeping. Did they not care? Did they believe that the drill sergeants were going to take it easy on them or provide more time for them to study? Was there a switch that flipped when you turned eighteen to make all this more manageable? Considering the constant state of turmoil Fiona and Lip had floundered around in, he doubted it. The other guys probably just didn’t smoke like him.

One hundred eighty-seven.

One hundred eighty-eight.

It would be fine. Ian would have plenty of shit to divert his attention on Monday.

One hundred eighty-nine.

One hundred ninety.

He paused to adjust his phone where the screen was dimly illuminating his _Blue Book_ and rolled his eyes at the clock in exasperation. Already coming up on four in the morning. Yeah, it was okay if he stayed awake until breakfast. Attempting to sleep right now would simply irritate him when he was roused all too soon.

One hundred ninety-one.

One hundred ninety-two.

There was work to be done.

One hundred ninety-three.

One hundred ninety-four.

He would get more rest tomorrow.

One hundred ninety-five.

One hundred ninety-six.

***

Ian jerked awake as deafening sirens tore through the barracks on Monday morning.

“On your feet! Everybody, on your feet and get in line!” someone shouted over the racket, and he sluggishly rolled over the edge of his bunk on pure instinct. It was like being woken up by Debbie and Carl picking at each other again, except _they_ couldn’t court martial you for sleeping in.

To his credit, he wasn’t the sole recruit rendered mute and disoriented at the sudden, jarring cacophony, although it certainly didn’t help matters that Ian hadn’t fallen asleep until the early hours of the morning. The room echoed with grunts, groans, and accidental curses as they tripped over themselves and each other to reach the foot of their assigned bunks before what had to be their newly arrived T.I. could devise a commensurate punishment for dawdling. The bullhorn from which their current bane issued was more than adequate for one morning, thanks.

Wakefulness was easier when standing at attention, though, and the impression of fragile calm descended with the abrupt extinguishing of that God-awful noise. It was deceptive, of course, that not quite casual air. It tried and failed to mask how they were balancing precariously on the flat side of a knife: stray a centimeter in either direction, and they’d get cut quicker than they could regret it.

Their T.I., a lean man who had to be around Kash’s age and stood a few inches shorter than Ian, was the blade; the split-second decisions they’d made in the minute they’d been awake, a series of blunders that would invite any number of sanctions. Groggy when ordered to get the fuck up? Punishment. Too slow in responding to instructions? Punishment. Tossed and turned too much during the night? Punishment. Really, they could have done nothing at all and would nevertheless be at their superiors’ mercy here. That was how they’d learn where the lines in the sand were drawn and how hard a brick wall they’d run into at full speed if they weren’t on their toes.

Ian had already gotten enough of an idea in ROTC not to tempt fate by testing his limits. Mentally grasping at the habits he’d adopted over three years ago, he automatically fixed his gaze on a stain just barely visible against the far wall, straightened his spine, and positioned his arms stiffly at his sides. The heels of his bare feet were perfectly aligned with the end of his bed, which was half made between having not been in it for very long and his care not to disturb the covers overmuch. A sigh of relief didn’t escape his lips as their T.I. slowly, deliberately stalked past him, his sharp brown eyes examining every inch of Ian’s posture and demeanor without finding anything noteworthy out of order—this time. Ian didn’t abandon that spot on the wall for an instant, not even to scan the officer’s name tag or shoot Fischer a pitying glance when he wasn’t so fortunate at the next bed.

“Were the rules of regulation attire not made clear to you, Private?” demanded the drill sergeant, somehow managing to sound both volcanically furious and cold as ice in the same breath. If it weren’t terrifying, it might have been impressive.

That may have partially accounted for Fischer’s dumbass move in replying, “No, Drill Sergeant.”

Wrong answer.

“ _No_ , the regulations were not made clear?”

“N— They _were_ , Drill Sergeant,” Fischer corrected himself, too late for it to matter.

“Then _why_ ,” their T.I. screamed in his face, split flying so far that Ian could feel the remnants land on his shoulder, “are you wearing civilian boxers, Private?!”

He couldn’t immediately concoct a coherent explanation, but Ian could: Fischer was an idiot who thought he’d get away with it purely because he’d bought what looked nearly identical to standard issue underwear, that was why. Ian had heard him joking about it with some of their unit last week and made a mental note to see how long it took for him to get himself—and, by extension, every single one of them—in deep shit.

Not long at all, apparently.

“I-I didn’t r—“

Wrong again.

“You didn’t _what_ , Private? Think that what the United States government and the taxpayers of this country bought you was good enough? Or do you just think you’re too damn special to wear what your fellow recruits are wearing?”

“No, Drill Sergeant.”

“You come onto _my_ army base, sleep in _my_ barrac—“

“I’m sorry, Drill Sergeant.”

_Oh, fuck._

While Ian wasn’t exactly counting, he was uncomfortably aware that Fischer had exceeded his allotted amount of bullshit for this conversation. It _was_ pretty hard to miss. The boxers were bad, the excuses worse, but interrupting an officer before they’d even begun training for the day? This guy was making Moreno look like the epitome of self-discipline and devotion to the cause.

It came as no surprise, then, that their T.I. leapt so close to Fischer that Ian assumed their noses had to almost be touching. He wasn’t about to bring the heat on himself by sneaking a peek in their direction to verify.

And he was unspeakably relieved at his own foresight when their drill sergeant callously ordered, “Remove them.”

The silence was tense and palpable, thick enough that Ian felt as though he was shallowly breathing in sludge rather than air. Everyone waited—the rest of his unit, the bunks, the ceiling, the little black and grey marks that broke up the monotonous white of the floor tiles. They were all equally certain that this wouldn’t end well, like they could all agree that the smart choice would have been to obey without question no matter how humiliating it was to even imagine standing in the middle of the barracks in nothing but their skin.

Fischer, however, either wasn’t that smart or had a dangerous craving for adventure.

“…Drill Sergeant?”

“Are you _deaf_ as well as dumb?!” their T.I. exploded, which finally seemed to crack whatever delusions Fischer was harboring about getting off easy. He clumsily stripped, hopping up and down on one foot as his boxers stuck to his socks. The moment his underwear hit the floor, the drill sergeant stomped his salt-covered boot down on top of them and kicked the offending garment towards the door.

And there Fischer stood, his fingers jerking nearly imperceptibly in the periphery of Ian’s vision without making the mistake of covering himself up. Not when their T.I.’s gaze conspicuously roamed his body to embarrass him further or when he eventually took a step back to survey the whole row. Goosebumps had Ian’s skin prickling in sympathy despite the fact that Fischer _had_ brought it on himself, and he swallowed hard just as the drill sergeant addressed them with earsplitting authority.

“I am Staff Sergeant Donovan,” he announced, so stoic that it bordered on cruel. “You will address me as _Drill Sergeant_ or _Sir_. Clear?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” they hastily responded. Their deference didn’t appease him. What a shock.

“You have three minutes to make those beds and get into PT attire— _regulation_ PT attire. Time starts _now_.”

Donovan wasn’t going to tell them again, nor did they require the added emphasis if they wanted to avoid provoking more of his ire.

Ian dove straight for where his duffel was stuffed under the foot of his bed, throwing it onto the mattress and digging around for his winter PT gear. It was good that he’d organized and reorganized and _re_ -reorganized his shit during the hours where sleep evaded him: his muscles remembered precisely where to find everything without wasting time attempting to discern whether he’d accidentally grabbed the civilian clothing that was supposed to be in his personal bag wherever they’d locked it up until graduation. What with the rough start Fischer had triggered, Ian didn’t want to learn what _his_ penalty would be for sneaking that stuff in where it didn’t belong.

But his midnight efforts to ensure that he was prepared for the approaching trials didn’t go unrewarded, and he was dressed and finished with his bed by the time everybody else located their uniforms. Donovan’s intermittent outbursts that they were approaching their deadline and needed to pick up the pace fell on deaf ears because they made no difference to him. Ian was a machine, a mindless cog in a system that issued orders he would unequivocally follow. That would take him places. That would save lives. That would make him more than a Gallagher—it would make him a _hero_.

“Freeze!”

The flurry of frantic motion instantaneously halted, transforming all of them into mannequins that had earned Donovan’s utmost contempt with their plastic, ineffective movements and failure to accomplish a set goal within a given time frame.

Or _almost_ all of them.

“Gallagher.”

Ian, ready and waiting at attention for their next set of instructions, replied, “Yes, Drill Sergeant?”

Donovan purposefully strode towards him and commanded so that the entire unit could hear, “Enlighten me: how are you the only recruit in this godforsaken barracks capable of following simple orders?”

It might have been his imagination, but Ian could sense all eyes shifting judgmentally to where he stood. That was fine, though. He’d trained for this. He’d studied for this. He’d lost sleep over this. (Maybe there _was_ an upside to not being allowed to smoke anymore.)

“ _The Soldier’s Blue Book_ , chapter two, section eight, Drill Sergeant.”

“Elaborate.”

“American soldiers are ready,” he recounted, glad he’d had the presence of mind to review that particular ordinance the night before. With immense satisfaction in his decision, Ian channeled Key’onna to add, “Always ready to deploy, move, or fight. Physically fit with bags packed, weapons zeroed, and gear prepped. Mentally prepared for anything. Flexible enough to recognize and react to the unexpected or take advantage of a sudden opportunity, Drill Sergeant.”

“ _That_ ,” yelled Donovan the second the words left his mouth, “is the mark of an American soldier! _That_ is the ideal that every last one of you should be living up to! And _that_ is why you’re going to spend your personal time tonight reading over chapter two, section eight until you are able to recite every damn word tomorrow morning at reveille. Do you understand?”

This time, the response was more muted.

“Excuse me?!”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

Better.

“Now, get your gear on and line up at the door, or we’ll be conducting physical training in the snow today.”

The frustrated glowering and impatient huffs in his direction rolled right off Ian’s shoulders on his way to the exit. It wasn’t his fault that he’d put the work in and made damn sure that he was primed for what today would bring, right? Maybe if the others had spent more time reading instead of playing cards and hunting for loopholes in the rules, they wouldn’t have to cram all that information into their heads in one night.

Ian, on the other hand, was finally realizing what it must have been like for Lip ever since they were kids. Was it always so intoxicating to remember stuff that nobody else did? Was it normal to feel so liberated at the notion of fielding fewer responsibilities not because he was ignoring them, but because he had it all covered well in advance? Did Donovan’s brusque nod of approval when he arrived at the door minutes ahead of the remainder of his unit mirror the support and urging Lip’s teachers and counselors had offered?

Had Lip spent his entire life surrounded by warm pride at his accomplishments?

Of course, he had. He was Lip, the smartest asshole Ian could ever have as a big brother.

Now, Ian was the smartest asshole in basic, whatever negative press that might earn him. And it was good—it was _amazing_. He never wanted it to end.

All he had to do was work even harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found it interesting that when Fiona says that Ian seems caffeinated, he immediately responds that he quit smoking. Seems to me like he'd been using that to explain how strange he was feeling for some time. 
> 
> Also, side note: what Ian is reading throughout this chapter and what he recites at the end is indeed from the Soldier's Blue Book. Accuracy--it's what I strive for. :)


	5. Part 1.4: Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: there will be mentions of and reflection on grooming and sexual harassment/assault in this chapter. The nature is summarized in the endnotes.

Ian’s days began at 0500.

Strike that—no, they didn’t.

His days sporadically began ahead of schedule at 0230. Donovan’s shrieks reverberated through the barracks, scaring them into alertness, and he refused to turn on the lights as a test of whether they could react to an emergency at a moment’s notice under less than favorable conditions. Most of them couldn’t. After the abject humiliation of botching it the first time and only narrowly succeeding the second, Ian could. It really was a shame that the whole _not sleeping_ thing hadn’t survived his utter exhaustion during the first few days of Red Phase. If he were awake, he would have been more conscious of his surroundings. It would have prepared him for all the hoops they were forced to jump through in the middle of the night and earning the privilege of returning to bed prior to their _official_ daily routine.

Dressing in under a minute.

Running three laps around the barracks in freezing temperatures.

Completing twenty push-ups in front of their bunks and slapping their partner’s hand between each cycle.

Standing at attention while Donovan informed them of every error and transgression, no matter how minor.

 _Yes, Drill Sergeant_ ing as enthusiastically as they could pull off when they were fit to collapse.

Finally being granted permission to do so—still wearing their winter fitness gear—for a couple hours’ subpar rest until the reveille sounded at 0500.

When it did, there was no opportunity for them to grouse or complain. There was no grace period for the guys who clearly weren’t morning people, nor was there any sympathy for the ones whose brains took hammers to the insides of their skulls in protest.

There were orders, schedules to maintain, and inconvenient bodily functions to alleviate—no more, no less.

Acclimating wasn’t so hard for Ian, who could count on one hand the number of occasions where his siblings had coddled him following a rough night. Unless it counted as a certifiable and usually severe illness, they got their asses out of bed and hit the pavement. In retrospect, the Gallagher house was a sort of urban, civilian BCT: time and patience for bullshit had been slim, just like here.

Donovan was no Fiona, though. Ian would never insult her that way.

Their T.I. was a decent person and all; he wasn’t dissimilar to the image that had been painted for them during ROTC. Harsh but fair, demanding, overwhelming, a pinnacle of military prowess—he had all the trappings of an NCO. However, Fiona’s version of running a tight ship had earned her the entire neighborhood’s respect. Everyone knew she was responsible for raising them, not fucking Frank. She didn’t _have_ to. That wasn’t her job. She could have ditched their family and skipped town to do her own thing whenever she pleased, and nobody would have held it against her, Ian least of all. Wasn’t that what Lip said Jimmy had wanted? For them to go someplace warm near the equator and just booze it up while Ian and his siblings commenced the struggle of making ends meet without their commander in chief? It would have been so much easier for her, yet that wasn’t the path she’d taken, sticking around instead to inspire the South Side gossips who spread the news that at least Frank’s oldest was worth _something_.

As far as Ian could tell from the brief, furtive conversations he’d caught after lights-out, Donovan didn’t quite command the same level of admiration. Far from it. His abrasive demeanor, while necessary to expedite their transition from civilian to soldier, skated on the thin line between grudging respect and muted contempt. None of the privates from other units claimed to be dragged (metaphorically _and_ physically) out of bed as often as they were. None of them lost their hour of personal time at the end of the day so frequently either, to studying or barracks inspections or group reprimands or whatever. If the rumors were to be believed, no one who progressed to graduation under Donovan’s leadership reminisced on their BCT experiences with fond memories, and Ian could definitely see why.

Not that it mattered. What happened when they were assigned to a real unit in a real warzone and found themselves in a similar situation? Whether or not they disliked the methods that their superiors employed, they _owed_ those officers the respect and obedience for which their stations called. They were _one_ army, _one_ team, and getting their noses out of joint over being pushed to their limits so that they could overcome them altogether wouldn’t do anybody an ounce of good.

So, Ian didn’t piss and moan about it. He ignored the hushed bitching and set his sights firmly where they belonged: on how he was going to carry on and earn that black beret.

The first step was physical readiness training at 0530. 

Every second of their day was packed full of valuable enterprises, but to Ian, this part was the most enjoyable. No thinking or unwelcome reminders that there were other areas in which he was woefully ill-equipped compared to his peers. In their first trial each morning, Ian was an undisputed master, consistently performing at the head of his unit. Pull-up bars were child’s play when he’d grown accustomed to picking splinters out of his fingers from hanging off the doorframe in his bedroom. Deadlifts? Nothing compared to hauling a casket full of rotting meat or the cadaver they’d pretended was Aunt Ginger. It was the same story whether he was heaving kettlebells from one side of the gymnasium to the other or beating the heaviest distance record for the drag sled or tossing a medicine ball back and forth with Key’onna like it was just another of Linda’s shipments. Ian was _strong_ —stronger than he’d felt in forever—and when they adjourned for breakfast at 0630, Key’onna had quickly resorted to rolling her eyes in lieu of asking about his untamable grin.

The pent-up energy that didn’t ebb even as he adjusted to a tobacco-free lifestyle wasn’t satisfied with one hour of activity in the morning. It also didn’t appreciate him sitting inside a classroom for over _three_ hours once they got cleaned up and switched out their PT gear for standard fatigues. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t learn a lot or anything—quite the opposite. Ian sat at the front of the room, having only Key’onna to contend with for the closest chair to the instructor, and diligently wrote down every single word of their lectures like a man possessed. Was there going to be a test? Would they need the highlights or the tiniest, most seemingly insignificant details? Nobody had the balls to ask, so better safe than sorry, right? He filled page after page with data—ranks, codes, communication procedures, inspection requirements, protocol for delivering reports to superior officers, terminology that they wouldn’t be translating into action until White or even Blue Phase.

English class had nothing on this. _Math_ hadn’t either, including geometry. Even so, Ian grasped the content with instinctive ease. It just made sense. There was a hierarchy to everything, a semblance of order and stability that wouldn’t topple if one person or even an entire unit made a stupid mistake. The army was built to outlast any threat, foreign or domestic, so it was organized in a manner that the densest dipshit couldn’t fail to understand. They wouldn’t fight over who got to use the rest of the minutes on a shared cell phone or squirrel away their resources; unexpected intruders or wayward soldiers dumb enough to go AWOL would face consequences in a logical, structured institution. It was almost _too_ easy to remember all that their instructors imparted since half of it was common sense and the other half was straightforward as hell.

With 1200 came lunch, although it wasn’t much of a break for Ian. He passed most of his meals by absentmindedly shoveling food he couldn’t taste into his mouth at lightning speed while he read and reread his notes until they stuck in his mind like Carl’s toenails to the carpet. No, it wasn’t difficult material, but still. Ian wanted to _know_ it. He wanted to _memorize_ it. He wanted to pull it from his mental repertoire as quickly as Lip dredged up useless facts.

He…was alone in that regard.

Moreno openly taunted him for it. Davis didn’t disagree with Moreno but kindly elbowed him for being a dick anyway. Hampton, the douchebag that unfortunately inhabited the bunk above Ian’s, shook his head and scoffed. Even Key’onna cajoled him about how he was doing well and could afford a few minutes to himself here and there.

But could he? Could he _really_?

He wasn’t like them. Not a con artist like Moreno, who was so talented at playing the system that he miraculously hadn’t gotten in any major shit with Donovan by the end of their first week. Not from money like Davis, who had been raised by the best nanny his parents’ substantial cash flow could fund. Not college-bound like Hampton, who was here purely so the government paid for an education that would help him open and operate his own tattoo-slash-piercing parlor back home in Milwaukee. Not genetically predestined for all of this like Key’onna, who barely had to hear the information before it was eternally etched into the fiber of her being.

Ian was simply…Ian. South Side trash with one shot at a life spent doing something that _mattered_. Serving. Helping. Being someone’s hero.

Fucking up wasn’t an option for him. He’d done plenty of that already. History wasn’t going to repeat itself—not on his watch.

He continued to read.

He continued to study.

He continued to use each instant of their free time to its fullest.

And then, at 1300, they were trained in more combat-oriented skills that their morning lessons didn’t cover.

Assembling, disassembling, and cleaning an M16 came naturally to Ian and Moreno, much to Key’onna’s unbridled chagrin. The latter could navigate basically any firearm available for purchase in the continental U.S.—legally _and_ illegally. As for Ian, it was a repeat. There were glaring differences between the equipment here and what he’d practiced on in high school, of course, but the general process was the same. If anything, this was _less_ work. The equipment his school could afford was ancient, scored and scarred from years of use and misuse. They hadn’t had the money for replacements or the good shit that the army dished out for, and Ian privately harbored the belief that his ROTC instructor would have had an aneurysm if he got a load of what Ian carefully polished as though it needed the maintenance. (It didn’t. The thing was pristine despite having been passed down by every unit that came through Fort Leonard Wood for however many years before he’d arrived.)

That? That was the tip of the iceberg. Hand-to-hand combat sent adrenaline coursing through his system that kept Ian going for the rest of the day and sometimes late into the night, heedless of his dry eyes and sore muscles. Guerrilla exercises may as well have been the obstacle courses they used to run in gym class; their tactical marches were frigid yet exhilarating. They practiced maneuvers and mock missions under the careful, condescending scrutiny of a fleet of drill sergeants who got their kicks from picking their performance apart. The T.I.s were vicious, indefatigable, and unswayed by displays of emotion—exactly as they were training their units to become. Sure, the honesty stung. Their insults and challenges plagued him while he was lying in his bunk, waiting to see if sleep would sweep him off the blustery shoreline of consciousness sooner rather than later. The verbal abuse would make them better soldiers, though. Officers knew what it took to achieve competence in their field more intimately than anyone else. They just had to remember that and not let the discouragement bring them down.

The hours flew by until the dinner bell rang promptly at 1700. Many of the other recruits were too drained to appreciate anything that wasn’t a hot meal and a few minutes off their tormented feet, but Ian? He was pumped. He was excited. He ate with gusto and read his notes some more and suckered Key’onna into a race back to the barracks every night to burn off the residual stress of the day.

And he was _happy_.

For the first time in _so_ long, there was nothing underlying his best moods. Not even the buzz of mild concern that perhaps he’d regress to where he’d been— _not good enough_ —could pop his bubble. This was all he’d wanted. He had more energy than ever thanks to a steady, balanced diet and simple, quantifiable solutions to his problems. No chaos. No aggravation. No loneliness or loss. This was good. This was _great_. Soon, everyone else on his team would realize it too.

Maybe not during the inspections and lectures and impromptu study sessions Donovan subjected them to each evening at 1800 sharp.

Maybe not while they washed the mud and sweat and strain away in their fleeting span of personal time at 2030.

Definitely not when they keeled over into their bunks and were almost immediately out cold by 2130, or when they were unceremoniously jarred into wakefulness an hour later and then an hour after that and an hour after _that_.

Soon, though. Soon.

***

Ian hated this class.

He didn’t dislike it. He wasn’t frustrated by it.

He _detested_ it.

Rationally speaking, there was no reason why. They’d already undergone the initial SHARP briefing upon arrival, so extended sessions to drive home those expectations shouldn’t have been a big deal—and they _weren’t_. Not entirely. Ian couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him, but languishing in a silent classroom while they reviewed the section introduction in the _Blue Book_ was pure torture. Couldn’t they go back to what they’d done during their first week and focus on all the values and shit?

 _Stop being a dumbass and just get it done_ , he sighed inwardly. It wasn’t possible to enjoy _everything_ about their training, and he’d sucked it up regarding plenty of stuff he would have rather skipped out on. This was no different.

It was _no different_.

_“When sexual harassment or sexual assault occurs, it is not only a direct violation of our Army Values and Warrior Ethos, but also an assault on what it means to serve in the Profession of Arms and the army way of life—a life in which it is our duty to protect and take care of each other no matter the time, place, or circumstance. As a band of brothers and sisters, we have a personal and professional duty to intervene and prevent sexual harassment and sexual assault.”_

That was a given. On the South Side, they lived by the same rules—or they attempted to. It hadn’t truly occurred to Ian that people didn’t always get the shit kicked out of them for that kind of thing until he was standing in Mandy’s kitchen with Terry’s gun in his face, the first time but certainly not the last. The same guy who’d regularly bragged about how he’d almost killed someone in prison for trying to get on him; the same guy who’d immediately hopped on board with going after the neighborhood’s newest pedophile before they realized that it wasn’t so simple.

Only…it was, wasn’t it? The government said she’d assaulted that kid. The law said so.

If the government and the law both said it, then the army would too.

And if the army would say that about _her_ , then what would they say about…

Ian shook his head, derailing that train of thought. No. Lip was wrong. Ian had been aware of what he was doing. He’d realized the implications of sleeping with an older, married man long before Lip had found out about them. Besides, it wasn’t like his brother or Fiona had waited until _they_ were adults to fuck around. Their situations were totally alike—one hundred percent identical.

Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Ian continued to read, _“Sexual assault is a serious crime and punishable by the UCMJ. It betrays victims and their families; erodes the bedrock of trust upon which the Profession of Arms is grounded; and has a corrosive effect on our unit readiness, team cohesion, and command environment.”_

But…

Concealing it from Lip when Ian used to tell him everything. Fighting, begging his brother to understand that it was okay, it was a _relationship_ , it wasn’t _wrong_ —

Pictures on the nightstand.

The foreign smell of their home.

The bed he shared with his _wife_.

Celebrating Ian’s ROTC promotion, except…

No. _No_. It was fine. It _wasn’t wrong_.

But…

But.

But it _felt_ wrong. Out of nowhere. Without warning.

It felt _wrong_. And then…

And then shifts spent uncomfortably evading advances that he hadn’t wanted anymore. Waking up in the morning with the distinct desire _not_ to go to work—to go to _someone else’s_ house instead. Cameras. Distrust. A burning slap across his cheek. A bullet and blood all over the floor. The expectation that Ian should give a shit when he moved on and ran off and left his family high and dry after everything.

That Ian would do his dirty work for him.

_“The damage resulting from sexual assault extends far beyond the victim, weakening the very health and morale of our soldiers, breaking the bond of trust within our team, shattering the confidence soldiers have in one another, and undermining unit readiness. Sexual assault can be prevented. As soldiers, our Army Values demand that we act to stop these behaviors.”_

Lip said that he’d thought about calling the cops. That he’d been on the verge of doing it a hundred times. That he should have.

_“There are no passive bystanders. Passive bystanders who do not assist, do not report, and do not try to help their fellow soldiers as they see sexual harassment or sexual assaults occur are part of the problem.”_

A creepy fucking Arab dude fucking his little brother. That was what Lip said.

Ian was a kid, and _he_ was a man. _That_ was what Lip said.

It had nothing to do with love.

Think about Carl.

Think about _Debbie_.

It was different. It was _different_. It _had_ to be different.

“Bull _shit_ , it’s different!” 

An alarm blared at the front of the room, startling Ian from the prison of his own confused thoughts so suddenly that he had to wave off Key’onna’s questioning frown. He was fine. Everything was fine.

“At this time, you should have completed the introduction,” announced Staff Sergeant Chang. He stood stiffly behind the podium before them, his expression stoic and meticulously blank as always. “Please turn to page one hundred fifty-two. Today, we will be applying your SHARP training to interpersonal relationships between soldiers and officers. Let me preface this by saying that any and all fraternization between officers and enlisted personnel is _strictly prohibited_. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, there are a number of personal relationships that qualify as fraternization. Dating is one of them, as is physical intimacy or sexual intercourse. Those are the behaviors most commonly associated with inappropriate relations between officers and enlisted personnel, but they are by no means extensive in range. Other unacceptable forms of communication include—Jimenez.”

The private two seats to Ian’s left rarely said a word, but that was no indication of his readiness. “Commercial solicitation, sir.”

“Correct. Everett.”

“Shared living conditions, sir,” answered Key’onna. So, they were moving along the row. Great.

“Correct. Gallagher.”

Noticing that his posture had suffered under the weight of his dumb, off-topic musings, Ian straightened as inconspicuously as he could and replied, “Friending through social media sites, sir.”

“Correct. Nelson.”

 _Relief_ didn’t quite encompass how the knot in his chest eased, and Ian silently berated himself for letting his mind wander. This was neither the time nor the place to lose his cool—not to mention that there was no _reason_ to. Lip knew everything, but he didn’t know _everything_.

Right?

“This is not an exhaustive list,” Chang added once he put as many of them on the spot as there were bullet points in their _Blue Book_. “As a rule of thumb, any interactions with your superiors should be treated as professional and related to the mission. Other dealings are inappropriate during BCT _and_ at your duty post. Officers are not your friends. They are not your partners. They are your superiors. They are present to issue orders and ensure that the mission succeeds. At no point will your relationship exceed that standard while you are an active soldier or member of the army reserve. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Flip to page one hundred fifty-four.”

The classroom was momentarily filled with the grating noises of uneven tables on tile and laminated paper squeaking against plastic bindings. There was a red star at the top. Memorize.

_Already done._

Chang didn’t wait for them to scan the page. He merely instructed, “Paragraph two. Go.”

“There are no consensual relationships between cadre/permanent party and trainee or between trainee and trainee during BCT,” they read in unison, and Ian’s arms tingled beneath their own platoon of goosebumps even though he wasn’t cold. He’d read that part before—once during Reception Battalion and twice since to remember it. This time, however, it struck him differently.

This time, he already knew where Chang was going.

Jesus, he _hated_ this class.

“Moreno.”

There was a barely audible yet noticeably disappointed huff from a few feet behind Ian. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you know _why_ there are no consensual relationships between permanent party members and trainees?”

“No, sir,” he admitted, not bothering to hazard a guess and not seeming to care much about it either.

Lucky for him, Chang wasn’t as stern as Donovan and let him off the hook, his eyes hopping around and ultimately landing on, “Hampton.”

“Power differential, sir,” Hampton responded. Ian couldn’t tell if he was bored or that was simply how he spoke. The guy was a dick, so he didn’t exactly make it a point to figure it out.

“Elaborate.”

“There’s no consent between unequal parties, sir. If one party has more influence over the other, then they can take advantage, sir.”

“Correct.” Chang stopped to let that sink in for a moment. “To allow such a power differential to exist is to endanger the cohesion of the unit. An argument in the bedroom can lead to undue and vindictive influence on the part of the officer or disobedience out of spite on the part of the enlisted personnel. Either or both would jeopardize the success of any mission or interpersonal dynamics within a unit. In other words, inappropriate relationships between two unequal parties can get somebody killed. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gallagher.”

Ian blinked. Fuck. He hadn’t responded—and it didn’t escape Chang’s keen gaze for a second. That, it seemed, was the disadvantage of sitting front and center.

Acutely cognizant of everyone’s attention shifting towards him, Ian awkwardly cleared his throat. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you have a problem?” Chang inquired, his piercing eyes boring into Ian’s with an intensity that could have flayed his skin off. Just like that, the temptation to run screaming from the room gripped him almost as deeply as it had the day he’d enlisted.

But there was no more running. Soldiers didn’t run. They faced their trials head-on.

As such, whether he was lying or merely optimistic, Ian’s voice was hoarse when he replied, “No, sir.”

Chang stared.

And stared.

And stared some more.

He didn’t call him on his bullshit, although Ian got the impression that he could smell it from where he stood. Instead, he reiterated, “Then am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. During your personal hour this evening,” he pressed on after an agonizing stretch, returning to the group at large while Key’onna shot Ian a surreptitious glance that he tried to ignore, “you will read from page one hundred fifty-eight to one hundred sixty-six. Be prepared to discuss tomorrow. Dismissed.”

“You good, Gallagher?” whispered Key’onna so quietly that he nearly missed it over the din of chairs and boots. Volume didn’t mean anything, though. It still smacked him in the face.

“Yeah, yeah,” he hastened to reassure her, keeping his gaze fixed ahead of them as they left with the others. “Just spaced out for a second.”

That was the wrong answer. He registered it as soon as the words ran a lap around the inside of his head and burst out through his stupid, trigger-happy mouth.

Battle buddy responsibilities, bullet number three: keep your buddy safe and free from harm.

Battle buddy responsibilities, bullet number six: encourage and support your buddy to train harder and do better.

Even from his periphery, he could see the professional worry emerge. “ _You_ spaced out?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Happens to everybody. It was a one-time thing.”

“For Moreno, maybe. You feeling okay?”

“Yep. I’m good.”

“You sure? You’re getting enough sleep?”

“None of us are getting enough sleep,” he observed, smirking when she could only shrug. “Seriously, I’m good. Probably just hungry or whatever.”

Key’onna didn’t look convinced, but she mercifully decided not to argue her case further. And that was pretty great since Ian had reading to do. He’d already covered the part of the book that they were supposed to review before tomorrow in the first few days after he’d arrived, but… Well, they were ordered to read it again, so that was what he would do.

At lunch while everyone else was dicking around over meatloaf and mixed vegetables.

At dinner while most of his unit struggled not to fall asleep in their soup.

During his personal time while the rest of the guys in his barracks took bets on when Donovan would give them phone privileges.

For most of the night while the others slept and his eyes watered and his brain wouldn’t turn off.

Drinking together was a no.

Personal texts were a no.

Riding in your superior’s vehicle was a no.

Kissing, touching, holding hands—sex? _Major_ no.

This shit was so fucking stupid, wasn’t it? Power differentials... What did that matter? You loved who you loved regardless of what position they held over you.

So, it hadn’t turned out to be _love_ where Kash was concerned, but they’d liked each other a lot. Kash had _cared_ about him and shown him that it was more than just _fine_ to be who he was—that he should be _proud_ of it the way Kash never could be. He hadn’t wanted Ian to sneak around and live his life for other people like he had or end up married to some lady he didn’t love with kids he regretted conceiving. _Kash_ was the one who had taught him that. He hadn’t… _taken advantage_ of anybody.

Ian paused midway through his forty-second reading of their assigned section to glare at the bottom of Hampton’s bunk, soft snores drifting down to him. What did he know, anyway? Ever since he’d stepped into the barracks, he’d been a thorn in everybody’s side. To a degree, he was kind of like Lip: arrogant and smarmy and too much of a smart ass about _everything_ for his own good. Where Ian could tolerate it with his brother, however, this guy was a whole other ball of wax. It wasn’t endearing when you weren’t related.

It _definitely_ wasn’t endearing when you were a stuck-up asshole who had it all wrong.

What made the situation worse? The fact that it shouldn’t have bothered Ian in the slightest. He shouldn’t have fixated on _that_ rather than arguably more important priorities.

There was no rationale in this nonsense to send him diving nose-first into his _Blue Book_ for the fifty-seventh—fifty-eighth—fifty-ninth—sixtieth time over breakfast the following morning. Nothing about it should have had him scribbling annotations in the margins of his notebook during class or distractedly going through the motions without absorbing much in their afternoon training exercises or spontaneously buying a new journal from the exchange with his EZpay card and sitting up with it all night once again.

But he did.

And he couldn’t muster the wherewithal to be ashamed or the motivation to stop.

Ian spent hours lying on his stomach in the dark so that he could chronicle all that he remembered about his relationship with Kash, from romantic start to bumpy finish. Then, when he ran out of shit to write, he started in on the stuff that had happened with Ned. Because _that_ was different too.

The following evening, he reviewed and annotated thirteen crowded, cramped pages.

The evening after _that_ , finally finished with SHARP training and moving on to Nuclear-Biological-Chemical materials handling with Staff Sergeant Carter, he wrote a lengthier analysis of the various reasons why _authority_ was a bullshit excuse to deny a person’s ability to consent. He’d been old enough to know what he was doing, for starters. He’d noticed how Kash’s eyes had lingered on him, and it would have taken a real idiot not to tell that Ned had been into him at that club the night they met. Maybe the latter was a bit creepier since Ned _was_ way older than Kash, but it didn’t really _matter_. Ian wasn’t the little kid Lip had obviously pictured when they’d argued about that teacher. Hell, it hadn’t been a year since their unsuccessful beatdown, and where was he now? The army. Basic combat training. Preparing for the rest of his life. He was practically an adult and had been for a while.

Actually, that was the next thing he could jot down: with all the shit he’d been through as a kid, courtesy of Frank and Monica, he could have been considered a consenting adult by the time he was thirteen. Fiona had been raising them at that age, and Lip? Ian knew for a fact that he was sleeping with girls by then. So, yeah. Age was relative.

Another morning.

Another productive day.

Another night.

Ian added a list of all the stuff Kash had bought for him, because really? Taking advantage? The guy had wasted a small fortune on him, which made Ian cringe in hindsight since that was money that could have gone towards his kids’ education like Linda wanted. Instead, there were concert tickets and decent seats for the Bulls, hundreds of dollars’ worth of designer shoes and collector jackets. That wasn’t even mentioning the occasions where he’d picked up food from the deli three blocks over so that Ian wouldn’t have to dip into the bread and peanut butter Debbie needed for her daycare. He’d gotten them hotel rooms at nice places, not shitty dumps where it felt as much like hiding as it was. When everything went south and Ian had… Well, when he’d kind of cheated on him, did Kash fire him as he’d probably deserved? No. Their professional relationship was strained, but he’d kept Ian around. Kash had allowed him to continue supporting his family in spite of how justifiably pissed off he’d been the entire time.

Maybe it wasn’t love, and maybe it hadn’t been comfortable near the end, but it wasn’t _wrong_.

It _couldn’t_ have been wrong.

The evidence was on the page—lots of them. Ian read through it, verified it, expounded on it, and read through it again almost every night for a week and a half.

Old enough to know what he was doing.

Practically an adult.

A doting, caring relationship that _he’d_ botched, not Kash.

No, it wasn’t wrong.

Chang was wrong. Hampton was wrong. The _army_ was wrong.

They had to be.

***

“Gallagher. With me.”

Ian froze when Donovan’s order cut through the mostly quiet barracks, his pen poised over the next section of his musings. (Tonight, he had finished studying for their NBC exam early enough to get started on a comprehensive record of instances where Kash had defended him against Linda’s unfounded shoplifting accusations.) The surprise visit only startled him for half a breath, though: any longer than that, and he would have been instructed to do handstands in the snow or something. When the T.I. said jump, you jumped. You didn’t question why or how high, which would accomplish nothing but igniting their ire. In the nearly three weeks that had elapsed since they started training, they’d had a multitude of opportunities to learn that lesson.

Of course, there were plenty of occurrences where they lit Donovan’s short fuse by accident, too. Ian would have assumed that accounted for his inexplicable entrance, but if that were the case, then wouldn’t there have been more cause for humiliating him with an audience? Waiting patiently for Ian to don his coat and not automatically screaming at him for whatever he’d done wrong didn’t exactly match his surlier moods.

Neither did Donovan leading him out of the barracks, Ian following a few steps behind, and setting a rapid pace down the sidewalk in silence. There was no clarification offered with regards to where they were heading or why he’d wanted Ian in the first place. That was the endless beauty of the military: Donovan walked and expected Ian to do the same. Simple. Straightforward. As natural as breathing.

Needless to say, if this constituted a test, he passed with flying colors. He didn’t ask, speak, or otherwise stray from the boundaries that had been placed around him by virtue of his status as a lowly private. He obediently adhered to the guidelines by which he had agreed to live—no, to which he had _devoted his life_. He stood tall and marched unswervingly towards their undisclosed destination.

He didn’t hesitate when Dillard Hall eventually came into view ahead, pointedly disregarding the voice in his head that warned him of the deep, _deep_ shit he was about to land in.

 _American soldiers are confident_ , Ian wordlessly recalled with his fists clenched loosely at his sides. _American soldiers act with disciplined initiative._

Even if that American soldier sort of enlisted under a false identity and was about to get fucking court martialed for it.

There wasn’t a single alternative explanation for his T.I. bringing him to the administrative complex at this hour that didn’t end in him getting hauled away by MPs. What else could be so bad that Donovan wasn’t addressing it in front of his unit? What else could be such a heinous violation of their values and codes of conduct that he wouldn’t say a word about it until they were sitting in some office surrounded by cameras and microphones and probably twenty other senior officers?

Ian’s head was spinning. His ribs were an iron cage preventing his lungs from drawing enough air. His heart was desperately thrashing around, futilely attempting to escape his chest.

They were entering the lobby. They were boarding an elevator.

Donovan didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

He was fucked. Totally, utterly, completely _fucked_.

_No. Not like this._

There had to be something he could do—he simply needed to figure out what.

The elevator stopped. Donovan stepped out, anticipating that he would too. And he did.

_Fuck, come on—fucking think!_

Lip could talk his way out of anything and would have had a million scams prepared in advance, but _Ian_ stupidly hadn’t considered that something like this might happen. His paperwork was flawless—for the money he’d paid, it damn well should’ve been. As far as he was aware, he hadn’t given anybody cause to suspect that he wasn’t who he said he was. The only person he really talked to was Key’onna, and he was careful as fuck not to get too personal. She’d even called him on it a few times, not that it made any difference.

So, how could they know?

It wasn’t important. Taking a magnifying glass to every move he’d made in the last month wasn’t going to help. He needed a plan— _now_.

A mix-up with the photos in Chicago’s license database? Too statistically improbable.

Somebody had it out for him and was lying to get him in trouble? Too pedestrian.

Ignorance of the age requirements? Too fucking stupid.

A version of the truth? They’d be sympathetic to the tale of a minor wanting to serve his country and not letting a year and a half stand in his way, right? It would look admirable. Patriotic.

Or really, _really_ fucking illegal.

So much for having thought everything through before he left home.

Donovan halted abruptly, and Ian narrowly avoided running straight into him as he jerked his head towards a door on the right. “Inside. First office on your left.”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

How he managed to react at all when an elephant was stepping on his throat, Ian had no idea. The words emerged of their own accord, however, and he forced himself to enter the Student/Trainee Transition Center as if it weren’t the equivalent of facing a firing squad— _alone_. His T.I. didn’t accompany him, the door swinging shut behind Ian with the resounding _click_ of a safety being released.

Despite the speed with which ideas were pummeling his brain from every angle, none of them amounted to anything useful. Ian couldn’t put the raging maelstrom into words if he tried.

Honestly, what was even the point? His ass was toast. There were no two ways about it.

There was just one thing to do.

Ian took a deep breath, stiffened his spine and upper lip alike, and strode purposefully towards the office Donovan had directed him to locate. When Gallaghers fucked up, they didn’t suppress it or make excuses. They owned it, for better or worse.

Was joining the army fucking up? Contrary to what _certain people_ believed, no.

According to the law…kind of.

So, he’d own it. He’d tell his story—or the parts of it that they needed to know—and hope for leniency. An advantage to not actually being eighteen was that they might send him home rather than indict him on the dozen offenses he’d racked up by signing _Phillip Gallagher_ on a few federal documents.

He’d cross that bridge when they got there.

For now, he knocked on the plain wooden door and listened for authorization to enter the lions’ den.

Or…one lion. And it was more of a stereotypical, dull office than the interrogation room he’d been irrationally expecting.

Flanked by neatly overflowing bookshelves that lined the entirety of the far wall, First Sergeant Ricci sat at his desk in all the splendor of his rank. He wasn’t one of the drill sergeants Ian dealt with regularly, but he was no stranger to anyone in BCT either. After all, it was hard to miss the guy that their immediate superiors answered to. Their first day, they’d been instructed to memorize the local chain of command, and his name was towards the top of the hierarchy: First Sergeant Dominic Ricci, Oversight, Trainee Transition Division.

His was also among the names of the officers they were told they’d never meet until graduation.

Especially not with Ian’s personnel file open in front of him.

Oh, yeah. This wasn’t good.

As if he wasn’t already impressive for his status alone, Ricci was a fucking _tank_. Where Donovan was all lean muscle, his commanding officer looked more like he’d aspired to bodybuilding instead of serving. His uniform was tailored perfectly so that his arms wouldn’t burst the seams where they were crossed at the edge of his desk; not even Kev’s physique could rival the breadth of his chest beneath the colorful lines of his accolades. Though his hair was shaved down to nothing, it didn’t make him appear older. If anything, it was intimidating as fuck. 

And that personified amalgamation of mettle and valor was watching Ian close the door and stand at attention like the worthless grunt he was. The worthless grunt who shouldn’t have been here at all.

Ian’s gums began to ache from how hard his teeth were grinding together.

Whether or not Ricci caught it, he didn’t comment. A meaty hand gestured towards the pair of chairs before his desk, and in a surprisingly high-pitched voice for a man his size, he directed, “At ease. Have a seat, Private Gallagher.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, hurrying to comply. If he was going to get his ass handed to him, then furthering his imminent punishment wasn’t in his best interests. Fortunately, Ricci didn’t keep him in suspense for long.

“How are you feeling, Private?”

That…wasn’t...

 _That_ was how he planned to start this conversation?

Resisting the urge to frown, Ian slowly answered, “Fine, sir.”

He nodded and shuffled a couple of the papers on his desk. “Any difficulty keeping up with the coursework or training materials?”

_…What?_

“No, sir.”

Ricci picked up his pen to record something Ian couldn’t read on a Post-It note attached to the inside cover of the folder.

“Problems with other members of your unit or the officers under whom you serve?”

“No, sir.” Where the hell was this going? And what was he writing?

“How are your daily habits? Nutrition, physical preparedness prior to fitness exercises, sleep schedule.”

“All within regulations, sir,” he confirmed. It had been a few days since he’d achieved the satisfaction of a full night’s sleep, but he wasn’t _lying_. Ian _was_ sleeping during the allotted time frame—therefore, within regulations.

More writing.

“Have any medical issues arisen or have you sustained any injuries during Red Phase that you have not reported to your T.I. or medical personnel on site?”

“No, sir.”

His pen scratching across that Post-It was grating on Ian’s nerves, and it was all he could do not to ask what the fuck was happening. It wasn’t his place to question. It wasn’t his place to rush a senior officer to the point.

It wasn’t his place.

It _wasn’t_ his place.

“Private Gallagher, where would you fall if you were to rate your stress level on a scale of one to ten?”

Was that a trick question? That had to be a trick question.

But what was the right answer?

“Uh…I…”

Ian grimaced, an apology for his hesitation dying on his lips when he discovered that Ricci wasn’t about to lambast him for needing a minute to consider. The first sergeant was merely watching, calm and patient, as Ian’s mouth opened and closed like a brainless goldfish.

_Okay…_

Stress.

Rate his stress.

How stressed was he? Well, there were a million ideas in his head at a given moment. They read and they listened to lectures and they took notes and they ran drills and they practiced hitting a target with an M16 from fifty yards away. Voices shouted at them morning, noon, and night; the midnight interruptions had diminished since their first week, but Donovan still surprised them every now and again depending on how they performed. Ian couldn’t get SHARP training out of his head to save his life, a dark facsimile of Chang’s voice hissing shit that couldn’t possibly be true in his ears anytime he didn’t have something else to occupy his mind. Writing when he should have been sleeping was admittedly beginning to tax his patience and his concentration.

Then… Okay, so _then_ there was also the fact that they were rapidly approaching the end of Red Phase and hadn’t earned any phone privileges. Although it wasn’t the end of the world, Ian hated that he had no clue what was going on at home or if there were messages for him on his cell. He didn’t know if Fiona was doing well at her job (she probably was—it _was_ Fiona) or if Lip was adjusting to college okay (he definitely was—it was _Lip_ ) or if Debbie was still asking about him or if Carl had been expelled for stabbing someone yet or if Liam had learned some new words.

Ian couldn’t say whether _he_ was—

_Stop._

He couldn’t say whether _his family_ was happy in the life they were leading without him. Thinking about Kash meant thinking about _that_ , and where he had his shit straight for one, the other was a mystery he couldn’t solve. Logically, there was one conclusion to draw: they were fine. Gallaghers were always fine.

Still.

None of that was going to sound very impressive if he had to elaborate. Ian was supposed to be eighteen, not five. Missing his family wouldn’t mean shit here.

This _was_ a test, random and unfathomable as it might be, and Ian was determined to pass it with flying colors.

“A seven, sir,” he eventually replied. Not so low as to seem like he didn’t care, yet not high enough to doubt that he was acclimating. Perfect.

Nothing about Ricci’s expression indicated that Ian had scored anywhere near the desired response. He nodded curtly, made a final note, and picked up a memo from the corner of his desk that Ian hadn’t spotted when he entered. Jesus, maybe they were approaching the point of all this at last.

“Private Gallagher, have you been made aware of what function I serve here at Fort Leonard Wood?” the first sergeant asked. It wasn’t overtly accusatory, but Ian tamped down his bristling indignation at the possible insinuation nonetheless.

“Yes, sir.”

Ricci motioned for him to continue.

“The First Sergeant of the Trainee Transition Center supervises drill sergeants and trainees,” Ian swiftly recounted, “and oversees training operations and facilities.”

Another nod. “Correct. That being said, one of my official duties is to receive and review reports on trainee behavior and progress towards graduation. If there are any inconsistencies or concerns, I address them directly. Do you follow me?”

He didn’t, but Ian lied, “Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” His gaze lowered to the page in his hands. However, the absence of his scrutiny wasn’t much of a relief as he paraphrased, “According to Private Everett, there was a noticeable shift in your demeanor shortly after the first week of Red Phase concluded. She has indicated that you seem _distracted_ and _abnormally unfocused during classroom instruction_. She also noted that your nutritional intake has suffered and that you spend most mealtimes—quote, _excessively_ —reading the _Blue Book_ or your own notes. While none of your drill sergeants have expressed any concern with your performance overall, Staff Sergeants Chang and Carter both confirmed that they have noticed similar trends during your morning routine. Staff Sergeants Donovan and Mulligan, on the other hand, have reported no change with regards to physical readiness training or practical application of skills in your afternoon training regimen.”

With each word, a needle stabbed Ian in the heart until all that remained was a raw heap of meat, unrecognizable as an organ. So, this wasn’t about enlisting under a false identity. He wouldn’t have the book thrown at him or be locked up tonight.

The reality was somehow better and worse at the same time.

Key’onna had ratted him out. He hadn’t done anything _wrong_ , yet she’d felt the need to go over his head just because she didn’t like his replies to her repeated, invasive questions.

Yes, he was fine.

Yes, he was sleeping okay.

No, he wasn’t feeling sick.

No, he didn’t need to take it easy.

Yes, he would tell her if something was wrong.

The lattermost was bullshit, of course, and this was precisely why. One off week— _one_ —and she’d snitched to the brass as if he was broken. As if he wasn’t doing this right—as if he wasn’t following through on his commitment—as if he was flawed—as if he…as if he…

As if he was _not good enough_.

Never good enough.

Not for his family.

Not for…for _Mickey_.

Not for his unit now.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

…When did his mouth move? Had he imagined that?

Apparently not, given that Ricci inquired with a mildly confused frown, “Sorry for what, Private?”

Ian wrested control of his tongue from his traitorous instincts to explain, “If I haven’t seemed to be paying as much attention as I should during instruction, sir. It’s a lot, and I’ve been using my breaks to stay caught up. I don’t want to fall behind, sir.”

Ricci contemplated that for an excruciating span, turning a couple of pages in his personnel file until he arrived at what Ian recognized as Lip’s transcripts.

“Your academic records _are_ impressive,” he allowed, “but it’s not a race. Here, you’re on equal footing with everyone else in your unit. Graduating at the head of your class won’t earn you a pat on the back.”

“I understand, sir. Sorry, sir.”

That warranted a sigh, albeit a more indulgent one than Ian had anticipated, and Ricci’s impassive gaze was tempered by the ghost of a smile.

“You’d be amazed how infrequently we get recruits with your dedication, Private. Just make sure you don’t wear yourself down prematurely. You’ve got a long career ahead of you for that.”

Ian had to bite the inside of his lip against a smirk of his own. “Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed. I believe you have an exam to study for.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was right—he did. And then some. There was the ACFT on Thursday and completing Red Phase on Friday. White Phase would start on Monday, and he would be responsible for learning and displaying greater accuracy on a wider range of weapons. There would be night training and more fitness training and the Warrior Tower.

Blue Phase.

Graduation.

Advanced training.

He was _fine_.

He could do this. Ian _would_ do this.

And he’d do it by himself.

He didn’t need Key’onna’s mandated attention or another visit to Ricci once he walked out the door of his office. He didn’t require anything beyond orders from Donovan, who wasn’t waiting for him and had left one of his sergeants to escort Ian to his barracks. The guys pretending or perhaps actually studying couldn’t offer him anything of value.

The army didn’t have to be so different from home, as it happened. Ian could carve out a place for himself without being beholden to anybody, not even the so-called team he worked with and their wandering eyes that tracked his steps as he traversed the room towards his bunk.

Fuck what Key’onna— _Private Everett_ —had reported, and fuck her. Fundamentally, this place was just like the South Side.

If they weren’t family, you couldn’t trust them.

Lesson learned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: During Red Phase of BCT, recruits take various classes on values and ethics. One of these is SHARP training, which focuses on sexual harassment/assault response and prevention, hence the acronym. Recruits are also taught about fraternization and inappropriate relationships between soldiers of different ranks. Considering the fact that Ian has never accepted or sought affection from or relationships with older men since his return from BCT, the club excluded due to the nature of his condition and the job, I thought perhaps this was something that hit home more effectively than his conversation with Lip. Here, we see Ian struggling to come to terms with it and ultimately reacting with denial. 
> 
> Side note: once again, anything quoted as being from the Blue Book is indeed from the Blue Book.


	6. Part 1.5: White

> _Sorry, haven’t had service. I’m okay though. Miss you guys!_
> 
> _No service in two weeks???_

Ian cringed at Fiona’s regrettably quick response. Although he had ample opportunity to fabricate a reasonable excuse for not returning her latest—and only—pair of texts, that was as convincing as he’d managed. His best bet was to come clean about not having access to his phone, but then he’d be obligated to explain _everything_ in the measly hour Donovan had awarded them for surviving Red Phase, not to mention a great deal sooner than he’d originally intended. She’d call, rupture his eardrums, and wouldn’t take kindly to being interrupted in the middle of her tirade when he had to surrender his cell again.

It wasn’t going to happen today. Next time, for sure.

> _Yeah, it’s been crazy_
> 
> _Still not telling me where you went?_
> 
> _I told you, a trip! Gotta go but I’ll text you soon_

A minute passed with no reply.

Two minutes.

Five.

Just when he resigned himself to the likelihood that she’d been distracted by one of a plethora of possible crises, his phone vibrated.

> _Sooner than two weeks Ian_

She wasn’t letting him off the hook, but as far as reactions went, that was fairly tame. He’d take what he could get.

> _Promise_

Realistically, Ian would have to break it depending on Donovan’s mood. That was a storm he could weather later. Fiona was none the wiser and would remain so for the foreseeable future while he figured out how to broach the subject. In the meantime, their device allotment had nearly expired, so Ian triple checked his messages and turned his phone off before dumping it in the collection bin and heading outside for some less smothering air.

Was it stupid to get his hopes up or anxious to see whether he’d received more than two notifications, both from Fiona, in the three weeks since he’d been allowed to check? Was it irrational in light of his responsibilities and the general preoccupation that inhabited the Gallagher house like another member of the family? Yeah, it was. He hated to admit that he’d done it anyway and feverishly searched his apps for a scrap of contact at the first possible moment. Ian wasn’t picky on the _how_ : another voicemail from Lip or perhaps from Debbie, a few messages filling him in on what was happening at home, even a photo of Frank passed out on the floor for kicks. It wasn’t that he wanted or needed to be there with them, but…would it have been so hard to send him an update while he was away?

Scoffing, Ian paced the sidewalk in front of the barracks until, bored and a bit dizzy, he settled heavily on the curb. It honestly wasn’t that important. They all had their own shit to worry about, and they’d catch up when they had a chance, as always. There wasn’t a lot he could say when he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information either.

If he were, he would assure them of how well he was doing. Better than that—he was _spectacular_. His preliminary courses were complete; he’d jumped through all the required hoops. The allegedly _excessive_ hard work and late nights paid off in spades: Ian had passed every single one of his exams _and_ his ACFT with perfect scores. Disregarding what Ricci had advised earlier that week, he pushed himself further and further to ensure that neither his T.I. nor any of the other drill sergeants could suss out a flaw to disparage. There would be an Army Unit Patch on the left shoulder of his uniform starting tomorrow morning to signify that he was _doing it_ , that he was right on track. Everything was going according to plan. His loftiest aspirations were finally within reach, obstacles like grades and age be damned.

So what if he didn’t have anyone to share in his achievements? It was a temporary necessity at worst. The other guys would be bitching about their families as soon as they finished calling home to relay the good news. He wasn’t missing out.

So what if he was still sort of living in Lip’s shadow? Nobody cared about _Ian_ Gallagher, so what was the use in being _him_? Lip—Private Lip Gallagher, of course—was happy, confident, successful, and self-sufficient. He wasn’t popular or _un_ popular, but there were far more pressing concerns than maintaining relationships outside of work. He was rebuilding his life and nailing it every step of the way without anybody’s help.

“Hey.”

Including Key’onna’s.

“Hey,” Ian muttered, eyes forward as she joined him. She was shivering so violently that he could almost feel the vibration from where she dropped down onto the concrete beside him, arms wrapped around herself and gaze conspicuously trained on Ian’s face.

Under different circumstances, there would have been an awkward silence, neither of them quite sure what to say. They might have made small talk, compared test scores, or predicted what awaited them during White Phase. That was how shit would go if literally any other person in his unit had sold him down the river for no fucking reason. Key’onna, on the other hand, had the composure of a steel plate and audacity to boot. Not once had she failed to articulate whatever was on her mind, and she had grown increasingly notorious for tactfully telling it like she saw it.

Ian was impressed she’d waited this long to inquire, “Are you still mad at me?”

“Not mad,” he tonelessly retorted, which was met with a skeptical hum.

“That’s total crap. You haven’t said ten words to me in days.”

_Wonder why._

Shrugging, Ian swallowed the sarcasm that bubbled up in his throat. She wasn’t wrong, so he didn’t see the point in arguing.

Then again, Key’onna didn’t have to take it so personally. Her report to Ricci may have invited his irritation, but she was by no means special in that regard. Everybody was getting on his nerves lately, whether they were too slow to keep up or too lazy to learn what they were ordered to or so entitled that they grumbled at the difficult task ahead of them rather than delighting in the challenge it presented. If it were up to Ian, they’d move double time; they’d be on the other side of White Phase and well into Blue by now. They wouldn’t be inching closer to graduation—they’d be _flying_.

Why weren’t the drill sergeants tougher? Why didn’t they push the rest of his unit as hard as Ian pushed himself?

Why have such stringent guidelines if they weren’t going to enforce them?

It wasn’t his place to question their authority, though the disparity gnawed at him with each imperfectly executed mission, inspection, and exercise. All he could do was focus on his own progress and, as the Army Values dictated, support his peers so that they could improve as soldiers.

That being the case, it was probably counterproductive that Ian mostly kept his distance unless they had a collective goal to accomplish. Moreno’s mouth and Hampton’s attitude aside, there was nothing tangible or specific that he could refer to as a genuine _problem_. But their _eyes_ —dozens of eyes dogged him wherever he went. They never averted their gazes, watching for Ian to fuck up like he always did so they could laugh at his ineptitude.

He was prepared to endure and combat that from their drill sergeants. It was their sworn duty not to pull any punches and to blow shit out of proportion for the sake of urging recruits towards their utmost potential. Not his unit. _Their_ role was to withstand adversity and defend each other, yet Ian couldn’t quell the sneaking suspicion that they yearned to sniff out the fake in their midst. Someday, they would realize that he was a fraud and a phony and shouldn’t have been allowed to enlist and then they would send him home in shame and humiliation where he’d fall into old habits and comfortable misery and never make it out alive—

He couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t let them dig that deep. He couldn’t play into their trap and hand them a motive to toss him in front of Ricci, who might change his mind about Ian’s future.

He had to preserve the gap so that they didn’t notice the seam where his Lip mask ended and Ian hid beneath.

He had to work harder—train more—slack off less—study later—perform _better_. The seemingly boundless energy and excitement that prevented him from sleeping more than a couple of hours each night in anticipation of what they would learn next could be harnessed, utilized to blow them all away and leave no doubt— _no_ doubt—that he _belonged here_.

Well, not _here_ here. The _army_ here. They’d station him somewhere else eventually, and maybe it would be a place he enjoyed enough to live there once his service ended. Would he want to retire, though? Or would he continue forever? Maybe he’d be a T.I. like Donovan and put generations of new recruits through the wringer for a while—that might be entertaining or, at the very least, rewarding. Yeah, he could teach. Or he could be an engineer and help design the drones and heavy machinery that were shipped out to their overseas battalions. There were routes for working his way up the ladder or becoming an MP, too. He’d hit the ceiling sooner or later, but there were tons of worthwhile ventures between here and there. If he really played his cards right, he just—

“You talk to your family yet?”

Key’onna broke through his digressive, turbulent musings in a display of annoyingly willful ignorance. His grand plans would apparently have to take a back seat. Step one: effectively navigate this impending shitshow of a conversation.

“Yeah,” lied Ian with a fluidity that was second nature by now. The real Lip would have been proud.

“Then how come you’re sitting out here?”

“My sister was at work. Couldn’t talk long.”

“On a Sunday?”

He huffed, the late January chill transforming his breath into a cloud of fog. “Some people have to work on Sundays.”

Key’onna nodded. “That sucks.”

“You get used to it.”

A beat of silence, then, “Everybody doing okay?”

Funny. Ian wondered about that as well.

“Yep. They’re good.”

“Cool.”

_There_ was the awkwardness he’d been angling for.

Too bad he’d been saddled with a battle buddy who either didn’t comprehend the concept of quitting while she was ahead or didn’t particularly care about boundaries. All things considered, his money was on the latter.

“Okay, you know what? This is dumb. Pull it together, Gallagher,” Key’onna scolded him none too gently. “I don’t care if you’re pissed. I did my job, and I’d do it again. If you can’t handle that, then you need to grow up.”

The heat from her glare radiated against the side of his face, but Ian could neither summon any anger of his own nor fully appreciate hers when the ground suddenly split in two and he tumbled into an abyss he had mostly ignored. Until now.

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

Why? Why was _that_ voice still here?

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

It didn’t make sense. He’d banished that shit from his life and scrubbed it from his memories. Ian had done everything in his power to forget how _he’d_ said…

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

As if _Ian_ were the one who planned to go through with a wedding that would ruin both their lives. But yeah…

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

Because he was a stupid, naïve kid. Because he’d wanted a future that didn’t exist— _couldn’t_ exist. _He_ had believed it. Lip had believed it. Mandy didn’t tell him, but it wasn’t hard to guess that she agreed. Had anyone else been privy to their…whatever it was, they would have arrived at similar conclusions. So…

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

It was happening again, except in this instance, it wasn’t about fairy-tale destinies so much as real ones. Would he lose this too? Would it be stolen from Ian like _he_ was? Or would it willingly kick him to the proverbial curb like _he_ did, starting with his battle buddy and ending with the army in its entirety?

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

Another voice distantly attempted to attract his attention: “We’re supposed to be a team, so don’t act like I did something wrong by telling Donovan that you were getting weird.”

_“Don’t act like you know a thing about my dad.”_

He did. Ian knew better than anybody.

“What did you think I was going to do here? You’re my partner.”

_“What do you think, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend here? You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me.”_

A warm mouth.

A partner.

A warm mouth.

A partner.

Why didn’t it stop? Why didn’t it _ever fucking stop_?

“You didn’t get in trouble or anything, so I don’t know what the big deal is.”

_“I don’t know what you see in that geriatric viagroid.”_

“Oh, my God, would you at least _look_ at me?”

Ian’s neck cracked from the speed with which his head whipped around to stare at her, half expecting the barracks to have vanished and an older, dilapidated structure to have replaced it. But it didn’t. They weren’t the same. None of his erstwhile desperation and heartbreak were reflected in her eyes; Key’onna was on the ground, but there wasn’t any blood trailing from the corner of her mouth or bruises forming at her temple. His frustration that she couldn’t mind her own damn business didn’t stab her through the heart like jagged bits of glass from a bottle of booze shattered in the gravel.

They _weren’t_ the same.

But they were. Earnest and persevering and painfully, futilely honest, they _were_. And Ian couldn’t stand to look in that mirror at the person who was supposed to have died along with so much of the past he’d abandoned when he left home.

Not again. Never again. 

He was on his feet, unaware that he’d moved until Key’onna sighed in exasperation at his lack of response. “Where are you going?”

_Anywhere but here._

Not an option. No running. No hiding.

_“You need to grow the fuck up.”_

Not like before.

“It’s cold,” he murmured, grasping at straws without caring if she could tell. “We should go inside.”

She surveyed him for an interminable moment, which was somehow easier to bear than her pleas for him to see whatever form of reason she subscribed to, then slowly stood up.

“Are we good?” she asked cautiously.

The warring factions tearing him apart from the inside couldn’t immediately agree on an answer. A tactical retreat was in order. Ian needed to think. He needed to reassess his position and construct a new plan of action.

He needed this shit out of his head—all of it.

_Were_ they good? Did he _want_ them to be good? Would that make his life simpler or more complicated when his eyes belonged on the prize? How far would the albatross of another potentially traitorous attachment drag him into the depths he’d been struggling against prior to enlisting?

Did growing the fuck up mean taking the plunge or burning his bridges?

Fuck, Ian was so tired of sparks and flames. They consumed everything yet still required even greater sustenance and sacrifice. Frank, Monica, Kash, Ned, home, school… _Mickey_. All up in smoke. All charred remnants that were so far away he could barely feel them outside the quiet, empty hours in the dead of night when his subconscious turned on him. They were two notifications in three weeks. They were reprimands in a basement and blood on a couch and foregone dreams of what never could have been. They were ghosts, phantoms that threatened to rip from his tenuous grip what little he’d managed to hold onto if he didn’t…

Grow the fuck up.

Key’onna wasn’t requesting friendship, and Ian certainly didn’t have any interest in forming one. Friends let you down. Everybody let you down.

The army was all he had. It was all he’d achieved on his own.

If he lost this, he’d truly have nothing left.

To that end, _partners_ were inconvenient but necessary. They had to be there, sometimes in capacities that weren’t ideal—sometimes in capacities where they reported you for dumb crap and had to eat their words when they discovered that you were _just fine_. That was okay. It had to be okay. According to the _Blue Book_ , they had to be ready for it.

_“American soldiers are tough,”_ it preached. _“Army tough…resilient…mentally and physically. Tough and resilient enough to be comfortable being uncomfortable, to take a surprise or shock and bounce right back into the fight, to move as far and fast as necessary and to fight as long and as hard as necessary to win.”_

When Ian boarded the bus over a month ago, he’d thought that his battle was over. The whole idea was that he would be surrounded by people just like him whose sole purpose was to serve and protect, right?

What he’d learned was that the fight didn’t end by virtue of their new positions or shared goals or somebody mandating that they get along. As had been true on the South Side, everything here was likewise a battle: to earn his place, to persuade his partner and the others in his unit that he _wasn’t_ useless without them or crippled by a rough week, to prove to his T.I. that he had what it took to succeed.

To swallow his pride and dowse the flames instead of stoking them, for his own sake.

Ceding ground hurt. Losing would hurt a hell of a lot worse.

So, Ian nodded. He forced the…the _Mickey_ -shaped battering ram into the box from which it had broken free and nudged Key’onna’s shoulder with a smile that felt less like a grimace now than a few days prior.

“Yeah. All good.”

He couldn’t afford to be anything but.

***

The battle to meet his teammates halfway was taxing when he had more energy than outlets to siphon it into and nobody particularly appreciated it.

_Three hundred eighty-seven._

_Three hundred eighty-eight._

Ian had forgotten what that was like. He could go and go and go and go all morning—all day—all night—on less sleep than Fiona had averaged that one summer where she’d worked three jobs.

_Three hundred eighty-nine._

_Three hundred ninety._

Had he ever been imbued with _this_ much energy before he quit smoking? He must have. Life wasn’t _always_ lying in bed, obsessing over… _Mickey’s_ wedding. Or _Mickey’s_ dad. Or whether _Mickey_ loved him or hated him or wanted to see him or was glad Ian wouldn’t bother him anymore.

_Three hundred ninety-one._

_Three hundred ninety-two._

Yeah. That was right. He thought it. What the fuck was so scary about a name? What was so terrifying about a past that didn’t define him now that he’d embarked on a new adventure free of that baggage? What made it such a huge issue that a familiar word from Key’onna could send him hurtling backward a few months to a place where everything was pain and all he could picture doing for the rest of eternity was hiding from the world?

_Three hundred ninety-three._

_Three hundred ninety-four._

Nothing, that was what. Ian would think or say it as often as he fucking wanted, because it didn’t mean shit. Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. See? The universe didn’t screech to a halt. The pieces of himself that he’d scattered around the South Side like a trail of breadcrumbs on his walk to the recruitment station weren’t there to hound him. Why _not_ use the name? It couldn’t hurt him here.

_Three hundred ninety-five._

_Three hundred ninety-six._

All this energy had to be a sign that Ian was his old, normal self again. That was a good thing. It was an amazing thing. It was a _fantastic_ thing! He was doing better—so much better!

_Three hundred ninety-seven._

_Three hu—_

A pillow smacked him in the head, and Ian reluctantly paused to glare at Hampton, who was leaning over the edge of his bed to return the favor.

“The fuck’s your problem?” demanded Ian, grabbing the makeshift projectile and chucking it in his direction. Without the element of surprise on his side, Hampton easily caught it, and a few choice words died on Ian’s tongue. One of them had to be the bigger person here, and since this douchebag didn’t appear to understand the meaning of the phrase, it fell to Ian. As usual. Diplomacy had never been one of his strong suits, but he could do anything when he buckled down and put forth the effort. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.

Still, he didn’t have to enjoy wiping boot prints off his shirts.

“Quit shaking the bunk, asshole,” Hampton groused. “I’m trying to fucking sleep.”

Ian rolled his eyes and patiently countered, “Lights-out isn’t for another twenty minutes.”

“Did I ask? I said knock it off, Schwarzenegger.”

There was a sigh over Ian’s shoulder, and Fischer hissed, “Cool it. Do you two idiots want Donovan in here?”

No, they didn’t. Well, _Ian_ didn’t. Fischer’s residual embarrassment over the boxer debacle notwithstanding, anyone in their right mind would prefer that their T.I. _not_ be called in to resolve a dispute. Odds were that the settlement would end in both parties getting fucked over, along with a laundry list of extra shit to do on top of their already monumental duties. The punishment wouldn’t be worth the satisfaction of putting Hampton in his place—not by a long shot.

Hampton, being an entitled, condescending prick, wasn’t on the same page. What a surprise.

“It’s not _your bunk_ getting kicked around, so fuck off,” he scathingly retorted, flipping Fischer the bird for good measure.

“It’s not gonna fall over,” Ian interjected. “This thing’s bolted to the floor. It’ll take a lot more than some push-ups.”

That prompted a scowl about as intimidating as the face it was plastered to—which was to say, not at all. “Save it for PT or find someplace else, Gallagher. Tired of your bullshit. Not gonna fall over—yeah, no shit.”

_American soldiers live the Golden Rule… American soldiers live the fucking Golden Rule…_

Words only went so far. Words could be reconstructed and reiterated, whispered and shouted, yet remained insubstantial words. Choosing to act on them was the tricky part, and as Ian’s face warmed with his flaring temper, he simultaneously clenched his jaw so he didn’t say something he would inevitably regret. Not because Hampton didn’t deserve to have his ass handed to him for the wealth of nonsense that Ian and everyone else had been cataloging for nearly five weeks, but because Ian wasn’t about to get _himself_ in trouble for Hampton’s idiocy.

“Hey, man, it’s my bunk too.”

“Except you don’t even sleep in it, so it’s kind of _not_.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“They not have mattresses in whatever hole you crawled out of?”

“Yo, shut the fuck up down there!” called Moreno, a few grumbled complaints echoing the sentiment. It was pretty bad when Davis didn’t immediately rebuke him for getting involved in stuff that had nothing to do with him.

Ian _should_ have followed his quasi-advice, odd as it was to admit that Moreno had a point. However, the spark that Hampton ignited hadn’t quite been extinguished by Ian’s attempts to fortify his extensive hereditary tolerance for horseshit. They were supposed to be adults, not bickering like Debbie and Carl over the last donut in the box Jimmy brought over for breakfast.

As such, Ian didn’t think it was immature to retort, “Look, if you’re gonna whine about it, I’ll lay off. But not until lights-out.”

“Oh, yeah?” mocked Hampton with feigned excitement. “Gonna write in your diary some more?”

“Jesus, do you ever stop talking?”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t keeping me up all goddamn night, I’d actually get some sleep.”

“Well, _maybe_ if you weren’t jacking off all night, you’d actually get some sleep,” Ian murmured before he could think better of it, not so quietly that Hampton couldn’t hear him.

So much for taking the high road.

His socked feet hit the floor so quick that Ian was tempted to mention how the guy should find that level of motivation for training. Then Donovan wouldn’t spend half of their morning PT sessions yelling at him to stop fucking around and get a move on. That would require Hampton to care, though, which was a lost cause if ever Ian had seen one. The army was a means to an end for him, not the permanent way of life their drill sergeants declared it to be. The asshole was probably already counting down the days until his first tour was over, and that was perfectly fine—if he didn’t give the rest of them a hard time while he was here.

As Hampton towered over him, taking advantage of the fact that Ian was still on the floor to flaunt his unimpressive height, the notion seemed pathetically optimistic. Guys like him didn’t specialize in marksmanship, stamina, strategy, or leadership. Their innate talent was chucking insults.

Taking them was yet another area he needed to work on improving.

“The hell did you say to me, Gallagher?” Hampton snarled in his best impression of a middle school bully who couldn’t actually hold his own in a fight. Carl would wipe the floor with him in a second, and Ian doubted that this dick could last ten minutes on the South Side in general. If anything, he guaranteed the opposite.

He didn’t have a chance to prove it. Just as he made to stand, his heart racing too fast for the warning bells in his head to catch up, squeaking metal springs groaned a few feet away and a tan hand planted itself on Hampton’s chest. That wouldn’t stop him if Hampton was really interested in a fight, but the gesture was more than enough to remind him— _and_ Ian—where they were and how many witnesses would provide testimony in the event that they came to blows.

Which they didn’t. It was a near miss if the blue fire in Hampton’s eyes was any indication, but they didn’t. Jimenez held the line between them like a silent, immovable stone titan, fielding an icy glare and Ian’s mute gratitude while Fischer perched uncertainly on the edge of his bed to watch. Nobody spoke, not that that was any surprise: Jimenez was a man of few words, and more often than not, he let his actions do the talking. This was no different. His intervention was a cautionary step; his posture, a warning.

_Back off_ , it said.

_Don’t engage_ , it said.

_I’ll drop you like I dropped Bishoff during hand-to-hand_ , it said.

Despite how frequently his behavior conveyed the contrary, Hampton wasn’t a dumbass. He got the message, loud and clear.

Visibly fuming, he spared Ian a hostile glance and clambered up into his bunk, where he couldn’t escape Moreno’s teasing remarks about not jerking it too hard tonight even if he chose not to respond. This time, Davis _did_ tell his battle buddy to can it, albeit halfheartedly. Moreno wasn’t ashamed of the innumerable nights when he woke anyone in his radius with his own raunchy fantasies, but none of them really were. They were guys. They were here for ten weeks without the opportunity to get their rocks off with another person because of the BCT fraternization policy. It was bound to happen. Nothing startling about that.

What _did_ take Ian aback was the gentle pressure against the tops of his toes that had him blinking upward at Jimenez, who was weighing him down and holding his hands out with an inviting incline of his head. Again, no words. Again, he didn’t need them.

One sit-up.

A punch to each palm.

A second.

Punch. Punch.

Two more.

Punch-punch. Punch-punch.

It was a reasonable compromise: Ian didn’t have to hook his feet under the bunk, nor was he forced to let his ceaseless energy go to waste. Jimenez even stayed awake with him for an hour past lights-out, calm and encouraging in a way that Ian hadn’t realized could be so comforting.

***

The battle to impress Donovan and the other drill sergeants was taxing when Ian was constantly on edge and his performance suffered for it.

He wouldn’t say he was _nervous_. It was more like he couldn’t settle, too keenly aware of how closely he was being scrutinized and that the most difficult portion of their training loomed larger and larger with each passing day. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have bothered him: the brass had analyzed their every move through a microscope from the instant they arrived, and Ian had been fully conscious of what the process entailed for years. None of it was new or sprung on them at the last minute. He’d come prepared. He’d been _ready_ , heedless of the recruiters and his family and Mickey saying otherwise.

But when their marksmanship exercises took a turn towards one of his weaker skills, it was harder not to recall how vastly out of his depth he was in a few fields. His academics weren’t stellar; his strategizing and coordination left something to be desired during Red Phase. His impatience to be finished with the formalities so they could get started on the important work made inspections sheer agony if it required them to stand still for hours on end as an officer—or five—systematically dressed them down.

And he was fucking up moving target practice left and right.

“Can’t be good at everything,” Key’onna had sensibly informed him after two days of missing all his shots and enduring Donovan’s brutal nagging.

Ian knew that. Of course, he knew that.

If he was going to be the best, then he had to _ignore_ that and pull his shit together.

His M16 recoiled against his shoulder, the bullet going wide as the drone he was aiming for shifted sideways a few yards off. Cursing quietly, Ian readjusted his trajectory and mentally reviewed the geometry theorems Lip had spent months teaching him to no avail. Lines and squiggles weren’t going to help him here. Donovan wasn’t going to hand him a sheet of paper and a pencil so that he could assess the logistics and then put them into practice. There wouldn’t be time for that shit in war, as he’d yelled on at least four occasions in the past two minutes.

_Fucking do it already._

Butt of the gun to his shoulder.

Palm against the pistol grip.

Finger on the trigger.

Center with the rear sight.

Follow the target.

Wait.

Wait.

_Wait._

Fire.

…Miss. Again.

“Gallagher!”

_Fuck._

Three feet away, Key’onna leveled him with a sympathetic half-smile that evaporated upon Donovan stomping around her to glower at Ian’s prone form. Honestly, he could have skipped the rant: Ian was able to recite it from memory after hearing it so many times, directed at him or not.

It would have been nice if he could fucking hit the target like he could memorize stupid shit.

“This isn’t a game, Gallagher! It’s not fun with your friends on the weekend with a cheap Glock one of them stole from their parents! Do you think this is _fun_ , Gallagher?”

“No, Drill Sergeant,” Ian firmly replied. The imminent admonishment would get exponentially worse if Donovan spotted a chink in his armor to exploit. Better to play along and accept his mortification with all the grace and dignity the _Blue Book_ kept repeating that American soldiers should have.

While lying on his stomach in the dirt. Being screamed at.

Real dignified.

“Then maybe you can try to hit one of those drones today, Private! If this is what you think is going to win wars, you’ve got another thing coming. What happens when you’re pinned down by a group of terrorist insurgents who _can_ shoot? What happens when your unit is relying on you to protect them, and they end up having to protect _you_ instead? What does that make you, Gallagher?”

Ian’s teeth ground together. His knuckles were white against the handguard of his weapon. Bitterness filled him, as did a sudden and inexplicable cold fury. “A liability, Drill Sergeant.”

“A liability! Do you want to be a liability, Private?”

“No, Drill Sergeant.”

“Good. Then hold that rifle like you know what to do with it and shoot the target!”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

In these instances, Ian idly pondered whether his T.I. had any clue how worthless his raving was. Shoot the target? Wasn’t that what Ian had _literally_ been aiming for all week? But sure, _telling_ him changed _everything_.

Donovan didn’t offer advice or further instruction. Half of them were in the same boat, yet instead of making himself useful, he just shouted as though they were failing on purpose. And really, what did it matter if they succeeded? All it earned them was a nod of acknowledgement, and then the drill sergeants lit into them again a day later for not pulling their socks up or whatever.

For not being good enough.

Did he think that Ian wasn’t cognizant of that? Did he truly imagine that Ian wasn’t achingly acquainted with the incessant, ubiquitous awareness that nothing he did would have the slightest influence on the series of shitstorms Gallaghers were doomed to ride out? Frank was still an asshole. Monica still deserted them. Fiona still had to give up her entire life to take care of the family. Mickey still got married. Ian still couldn’t hit a moving target.

Perhaps, by the army’s standards, he _wasn’t_ good enough.

But what was _good enough_ , anyway?

It was morbidly amusing how Donovan went on and on and on and _on_ about honor and glory and comporting themselves as American soldiers. Then, when Ian did that, his T.I. yelled. When he didn’t, the guy yelled. Ian was a maggot either way. Or Lip was. Same difference, according to his ID card.

Was it a game? Were they _meant_ to feel like insects that weren’t fit to scrub the officers’ boots no matter how hard they worked or how much they sacrificed for this life? Was that the point—to trick them into giving and forfeiting and following blindly with promises of rewards they’d never see?

That wasn’t what they’d told him in ROTC. That wasn’t how this should have worked.

The military should have propped them up— _that_ was what he’d been taught. _That_ was what everything he’d read and watched promoted: discovering themselves and their potential.

So much for that, at least with regards to BCT.

That wouldn’t deter him, though. Not today. Not when he’d come this far. It was just like Key’onna’s snitching and Hampton annoying the fuck out of him. The shouting and the insults and the metaphorically dragging him through the mud—he’d work with that. He’d do this on his own and prove to them— _all of them_ —that they couldn’t break him. No storm could. He was a fucking _Gallagher_. They were cracked. They were tarnished. They were weather-beaten and discolored from age and exposure to the elements.

They didn’t break.

They lost battles but won wars.

They also held grudges, which was why Ian’s next endeavor was his most fruitful compared to the rest. The technique was underrated yet effective: where a drone was tough to follow against the backdrop of a cloudy, morose sky, superimposing another image over top of it provided the motivation Ian required.

A beer gut that had taken a lifetime to cultivate.

Knuckle tattoos that had pummeled Ian’s head until they were forcibly hauled away.

One of countless shirts with the sleeves torn off.

That cruel sneer.

That smarmy entitlement to Ian’s misery.

That shitstorm personified.

His first shot clipped it. His second went straight through the center.

***

The battle to set aside his gathering reservations about the process and focus on the endgame was taxing when Ian was horny as fuck.

That, in any case, was the most logical explanation for his senseless agitation as January faded into February and they approached the conclusion of White Phase. There were other possible reasons, like being homesick or eager for more interesting tasks than shooting at shit or ticked off with his slow progress. However, if any of those excuses held the answer, he should have noticed weeks ago rather than how sharply it seemed to strike him _now_.

Could anyone blame him? He hadn’t gotten laid since… Well, since the wedding that he didn’t bother dwelling on anymore because he was _better_. That was in the past—less than a blip on his radar or a shadow in his rear-view mirror. The truly noteworthy tragedy here was that Ian hadn’t been in a position to let off steam in _months_. Come to think of it, this was probably the longest he’d been celibate since he’d started having sex to begin with.

Jesus. He needed to get laid. He _really_ needed to get laid.

Unfortunately, the rules imposed on them were clear and not weighted in his favor. None of that would fly while they were in BCT: they weren’t allowed to fuck anyone in their immediate vicinity. Fellow recruits, officers, administrative personnel—off limits across the board. Based on what he’d gleaned from a few of the guys in his barracks, that didn’t stop them from getting some behind the scenes, which they were careful not to flaunt where the drill sergeants could hear them. The civilian secretaries liked men in uniform, if Moreno and Nelson were the reliable sources they claimed. For the first few weeks, Ian had been adamant that they were making the biggest mistake of their careers. A court martial just to have someone else do what their hands were more than capable of? What a dumb move.

So much for that.

The itch progressively intensified until it was so extreme in its persistence that nothing Ian did could reach it, let alone scratch it, and a morning of Moreno’s harmless yet embarrassing quips regarding Ian’s four separate overnight trips to the latrine was sufficient for him to hop off his high horse and begin formulating a plan. They had three weeks of Blue Phase ahead of them, where all their training thus far would be tested in practical, realistic combat scenarios. They were expected to enter the home stretch with undivided concentration and their morale at its zenith. If he didn’t get some relief before then, Ian wasn’t sure he’d make it, given that his libido had clasped his brain firmly in its greedy claws and refused to let go for a second.

He didn’t mention any of that to Key’onna, whose _Blue Book_ -certified response was predictable. He didn’t tell her that his willpower was unraveling at the seams or that his eyes independently scanned for likely candidates despite the Red Phase lessons that couldn’t be more inescapable if they were tattooed to their foreheads. It set him somewhat at ease that he hadn’t been called in for Ricci to interrogate him again, so she either hadn’t noticed his inadvertent preoccupation or was trusting him to let her know if he wasn’t doing okay.

He _was_. Aside from the daily nuisance of being told what to do only for it to end in disappointment and the occasional punishment, Ian’s sole concern was banging one out. Or two. …Maybe more than that depending on how much of a wait he was in for.

It was fortuitous, then, that his newly heightened consciousness of every guy in his unit brought to his attention what he must have overlooked in his heretofore narrow-minded devotion solely to training.

According to Mandy, there was a _look_ when someone really liked you. What that even meant, Ian was sort of shaky on, and he hadn’t had the balls to ask for clarification. To his knowledge, he’d never seen it. For a while there, he’d been convinced that Mickey might… Forget it. What he’d wrongly suspected about Mickey could fill a few dozen of his journals. The point was that there were other looks that Ian didn’t have to be an expert to catch. Kash had been the first; Ned, the second. Others followed, their tactics never changing in the slightest. Lingering stares. Confident yet tentative smirks. The occasional touch that spoke an instinctive, wordless language.

That was how he figured out that Jimenez was into him.

It was also how Ian reciprocated his interest.

No, it wasn’t what Mandy had described. Attraction and affection were entirely separate beasts, and that was fine by him. Attraction didn’t bite him in the ass like affection did.

They were cautious from the outset, meticulous in ensuring that their arrangement wouldn’t get them reported. In that sense, their rigid schedule was beneficial. Ian was always up late, so he waited a couple of hours for everyone else to fall sound asleep and then snuck off to the latrine, where Jimenez joined him after exactly thirty minutes. They concluded their business with military precision and efficiency, leaving no trace behind, and staggered their return in case anyone noticed they were both out of bed.

They never spoke about it. Their professional interactions weren’t altered by their nightly assignations. Neither of them harbored any delusions about what this was: sex, pure and simple and uncomplicated by emotions. They were merely two guys who desperately required skin on skin, mingled sweat, and an opportunity to _breathe_ at the end of the day. And it was good. Honestly, Jimenez was talented as hell in the sack (or the empty shower stalls, as it were), even if Kash and Ned _did_ have a leg up on him in experience and finesse. That didn’t make him _worse_ , just a bit less refined, which more than suited Ian’s needs.

What he lacked in practice, he made up for in something that was impossible to adequately describe with words. There was a level of reassurance when they were together, whether it was in the bathroom at three in the morning or a fleeting glance in anticipation during their hour of personal time. Jimenez was _nice_ to him. He didn’t say much, but he also didn’t hurl insults or call him a _warm mouth_ or leave him waiting in the wings to service him like some kind of kept whore. He made sure that Ian was equally satisfied. He started slow so that Ian could stop him if he wasn’t in the mood. (That never happened. It was still nice to be given the option.)

He was gentle. Ian…wasn’t accustomed to _gentle_.

That served to improve their hook-ups drastically. Jimenez wasn’t like anybody Ian had ever been with—the random guys at school who preferred to get off and run, Kash and all his baggage, Ned’s fancy overcompensating, Mickey’s… _Mickeyness_.

This was light and casual, a mutual pact born from the unavoidable camaraderie they had constructed under their common struggle with Donovan’s tyranny. There was no personal angle to it: they didn’t care about each other beyond their connection as brothers in arms. They could walk away whenever they chose and forget the whole exchange had ever occurred. There was comfort in that. Ian could take solace in kisses traded not out of passion, but because it felt nice and occupied their mouths so that they stayed quiet. He could savor the simple caresses and addictive sensation of Jimenez’s fingers sweeping the ever-lengthening strands of his hair off his forehead as they finished.

Pleasure without guilt.

Fun without having to remember what it was like to sleep with someone he gave a damn about.

Attraction. Not affection.

It was great. It was so fucking great.

Even greater was that satisfying his body’s desires offered the added benefit of slowing his brain down for a few minutes. When the world was spinning too quickly in the wake of the myriad changes his life had recently undergone, when he rose each morning a bit off kilter from anticipating Donovan’s fickle whims, when Ian ran faster and faster and faster yet continued to fall inches—feet—yards behind where his very _soul_ expected him to be… Jimenez made it go away, just for a little while. He quieted the frantic knocking of a destiny that threatened to abandon him if Ian didn’t keep up and drew the spare energy from him like they’d been taught to extract poison from wounds in ROTC.

Afterward, Ian flopped onto his bunk, sated and relaxed and ready to take on the world. Sometimes he slept; sometimes he didn’t.

Was everything perfect? No. It _was_ good, and that was more than any Gallagher had a right to hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that there will be **NO** explicit sexual content in this story or anything more detailed than what you see here. Thank you for reading!


	7. Part 1.6: Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language warning: a racial slur is used once in this chapter.

The advantage to signing up for BCT during the winter months was that half the shit they ordinarily would have been slated to endure was canceled. Overnight tactical marches and training maneuvers were impossible when the temperature was barely in the double digits and the wind chill made it seem even colder. Their winter gear, while functional, wasn’t built for _that_ level of extreme weather. Twelve- and fifteen-mile hikes were fraught with agonizing conditions during the _day_ , ice clinging to them where sweat soaked through their fatigues and snow sneaking past the tops of their boots to saturate their thick socks. Sunlight was in predictably short supply by the start of February; precipitation was an inevitability, not an isolated occurrence. As White Phase wound down, half their unit filtered through sick call, provoking Donovan’s limitless scorn not for their lazy immune systems so much as their inability to handle it on their own.

Like Ian did. One trip to self-care for cough drops and a few Icy Hot patches, and he was good as new. They didn’t have anything to tackle the chill that seeped into his bones and never really disappeared, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary after a lifetime of the gas company cutting them off when they didn’t have enough cash left in the squirrel fund to pay the bill. They also didn’t distribute the creature comforts that would have brought them greater relief than a dose of DayQuil and flavorless coffee from the DFAC. That, too, wasn’t the hardship a few of his fellow recruits believed it to be. The free clinic at home wasn’t much better, so Ian counted his blessings and sucked it up. In four weeks, they wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.

In four weeks, they’d graduate and get the hell out of here for the next step of their journey.

But, much to his disappointment, there was more to be done, and not _everything_ was postponed on account of the cold.

The disadvantage to signing up for BCT during the winter months? They still had to run the obstacle courses—repeatedly—until they got them right.

On the surface, that was no hassle. PT was where Ian had thrived thus far, and what was an obstacle course besides another, more intensive version of their morning workouts? Distinct differences set them apart: there was no enjoyment in climbing, crawling, and running around outdoors when his teeth were chattering and he’d lost sensation in his extremities. But Ian persevered. His performance fit comfortably within the parameters imposed on them, and his individual scores were off the charts, though that brought him lukewarm satisfaction at best beneath the shower’s blistering spray in the aftermath.

Independently, Ian had it made. It was the teamwork element that didn’t live up to expectations.

He couldn’t control whether his unit kept pace or mitigate the impact of their individual shortcomings no matter how many times Mulligan and the other drill sergeants reinforced the idea that they should overcome those roadblocks through solidarity. Leaping hurdles couldn’t be a collective effort. Squeezing beneath fifty yards of barbed wire, squirming through the slushy mess of snow and mud, regaining their balance as they slipped and slid onto their feet again—there was nothing he could do to help anybody who couldn’t handle that shit.

They were tasked with figuring it out anyway.

And the deadline was today.

The stakes were higher than ever, and not solely because this course was their final assignment before they transitioned into Blue Phase. That was beyond sufficient to give Ian the jitters as they marched out to the designated operation site, which may not have been the worst thing if it staved off the bitter cold for a while. It wouldn’t help his coordination, but whatever. He could work with it. Having the finish line within reach was a powerful motivator.

So was the arguably more potent carrot Donovan had dangled in front of their noses that morning: eased cell phone restrictions. They’d gone almost six weeks with only one opportunity to contact the outside world, but if they didn’t fuck this up? If they succeeded in this exercise and the hell they would undoubtedly receive during their phase transition? Their phones would be under their control again. They’d be allowed to store them in their regulation duffels, not locked away in some undisclosed location. A handful of the other guys had voiced baseless suspicions that Donovan snooped through their contents for material to use against them during training, be it porn or stupid pictures of their girlfriends or embarrassing family photos from when they were kids, so all the more reason for them to get this right on their first go.

Unlike them, Ian didn’t have anything saved in his cell that would make for good ammunition. His two weeks, however, would be up on Sunday. There was always the chance that Fiona had forgotten, what with her job (if they hadn’t gotten rid of her yet) and taking care of Debbie, Carl, and Liam on her own. For all Ian knew, there wouldn’t _be_ any notifications waiting for him. That didn’t erase the ill-advised promise he’d made or that he’d wind up on Fiona’s shit list eventually if he wasn’t careful.

Less than two weeks.

He _was_ going to have his phone in time.

And what a dumb rule, right? They were all adults here. …Okay, they were _almost_ all adults here. Why bother with crap like taking away their devices? It wasn’t like they’d be able to sit around texting their friends day in and day out as so many of Ian’s classmates had over the years. They had shit to do, and when they weren’t busy running themselves ragged, they were usually too tired to even consider calling home anyway. There was no point in them going without their most basic form of communication.

Unless their drill sergeants simply _enjoyed_ depriving them of their connections to the people they cared about. Was that what it amounted to: a power trip? Getting off on telling them how to live their lives, from the proper shape and length of their toenails to their posture to their eating habits to who they could and could not interact with? Because, of course, they weren’t satisfied with controlling Ian’s schedule and values and demeanor and beha—

“Get in formation!”

Mulligan’s booming orders and Moreno’s wayward elbow jostled Ian into reality. Training. Yeah.

_Focus._

This wasn’t going to work if he let the smallest shit get past him, yet they’d arrived at the start of the course without Ian realizing, and he’d actually _slept_ the previous night through. Mulligan was waiting for them, as PT was his domain. Donovan stood off to the side, his expression obnoxiously stoic for someone who’d shouted at them about his expectations for an hour this morning. The other recruits were tense, stiff from nerves while inconspicuously shivering in the cold.

When had all that happened?

It didn’t matter. It was time.

The preparation had been completed yesterday. The drill sergeants had explained every obstacle and demonstrated how they were to approach each one. Their groups were decided and conveyed. They’d been granted their personal time to consider the most appropriate plans of action.

There was nothing else to cover. They were up.

_I’ve got this._

“Today,” announced Mulligan once they’d gathered close and the squelching of mud under their boots ceased, “is the final examination of the skills you’ve learned between Red and White Phases. Your mission is to reach the end of the obstacle course by working _as a team_. What does it mean to work as a team?”

Ian took a deep breath, and they all responded on cue, “No soldier is left behind, Drill Sergeant.”

“Precisely. If one of you doesn’t complete the course, none of you do. And you _will_ complete this course to move into Blue Phase, unless you’d prefer to repeat White Phase or restart at day zero.”

“No, Drill Sergeant.”

Hell, no. Not possible. Not for Ian. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—

“Good. When I issue the signal, you will divide into your designated operation teams. Five minutes will be allotted for strategizing and coordinating your efforts. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

Pause. Glare.

“Begin.”

There was no hesitation, no reason to be told twice. The congregation split, and they scrambled to locate their groups without wasting an instant that might constitute the difference between success and failure. The latter wasn’t an option, so every second counted.

A stroke of luck or Donovan unintentionally taking pity on him—whatever higher power had decided to give him a break by assigning Hampton to another team earned Ian’s undying gratitude. Not only didn’t they have time for pointless arguments over the right tack to adopt, but Ian was positive that he wouldn’t be able to muster the patience to tolerate that shit. Not today. His entire being _had_ to be singularly devoted to their goal. Hampton could be somebody else’s weak link, specifically Key’onna and the rest of her group.

This was the first occasion where she hadn’t been assigned to the same team as Ian, though that appeared to have been done by design. In this trial, they were _all_ battle buddies, not just the person they’d been attached to since they’d arrived. The disquieting feeling that accompanied those dumb school projects he’d always hated and the problems that he couldn’t solve alone returned with a vengeance even as he reminded himself that this was _necessary_. This was _purposeful_. This was vital to his future regardless of how uncomfortable it was to join the throng until he settled amidst his selected comrades. His heart didn’t have to race so wildly or deafen him where it hammered into his eardrums, and fuck, why couldn’t his leg stop bouncing? This was fine—everything was fine…

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, gripping so tightly that it catapulted him out of his sidetracked thoughts. All of a sudden, Jimenez was beside him—when had he gotten there?—and his presence was equal parts comforting and grounding as he leaned casually against Ian’s arm to listen to the discussion that Ian was missing out on in his inadvertent preoccupation. They didn’t speak; Jimenez was careful not to even glance in Ian’s direction. Nothing about their position could possibly give anyone the wrong—or _right_ —idea, but for now, Ian didn’t particularly care. Nobody was paying any attention to them. There was more important stuff to deal with. As such, he inconspicuously nudged Jimenez with his elbow in thanks and forced his stupid fucking brain to get back to work. The stress Ricci had been so worried about hadn’t broken him yet—it wouldn’t today either.

“We need the heavy lifters at the front,” Davis was positing, his commanding voice no longer drowned out by the rhythmic pounding and static inside Ian’s head.

This was a latent function of the entire exercise: the natural leaders would emerge in _this_ moment, and Ian _would_ be one of them. He wasn’t behind the counter at the Kash and Grab anymore. His unit wasn’t Frank making excuses to get out of paying. Here, Private Lip Gallagher was going to be on the short list for promotion to an NCO by the time he really _was_ eighteen. He just had to show everybody that greatness may not have been in his genes at birth, but he could cultivate it if given the opportunity.

And _this_ was the opportunity.

Bishoff shook his head and jumped in, “We’re slower. If we want to get ahead of the other teams, we need the runners up front.”

_That won’t work._

Davis took the words right out of his mouth, rebutting, “It’s not about speed. It’s about getting everybody across the finish line, which we _can’t_ do if the lifters aren’t there to help after the low-crawls.”

“And if the meatheads get stuck, somebody can give you a shove from behind,” added Moreno. Flippant or not, he had to be taking this shit seriously if he wasn’t embellishing his opinions with some entertaining profanity.

A few of the other guys nodded in agreement, and Ian took advantage of the lull to suggest, “If we put the heavy lifters up front, the runners can stay to the rear to keep everyone on pace. They’re less likely to need the help and can make up for it with speed if they have to.”

Jimenez nodded.

Moreno gestured towards him and said, “I’m with Gallagher.”

Bishoff reluctantly concurred.

No one argued. No one challenged him.

It felt right. It felt _so right_.

Ian was still riding high when the whistle blew to alert them that their time was up, and they hurried to their starting positions. They could skip the bickering over who went first or last: after weeks of Donovan’s harsh reminders, they were all intimately aware of their strengths and shortfalls to claim their rightful spots in the lineup. Neither the strongest nor the quickest, Ian slipped into the center of their formation, every muscle in his body taut and trembling like a bowstring ready to snap. The cold didn’t register, and if it weren’t imperative for him to note the light snow flurries that drifted from the overcast sky for the success of their mission, Ian wouldn’t have realized. Standing at the ready, identical to his fellow trainees yet nothing like them at all, he was the machine that could do anything.

No academics.

No navigating doomed relationships.

No anticipating their next household catastrophe.

Just motion. Just pushing his body to its limits. Just unleashing what he could do and hoping it was _good enough_.

His mind quieted and his heart rate evened and his skin sloughed off onto the frozen ground where he wouldn’t be so desperate to crawl out of it when he couldn’t find the room to breathe inside.

Shouted orders.

A second of silence.

A gunshot.

Ian _ran_.

The initial obstacles were the easiest. Ian had been hopping fences in his neighborhood for so long that he could do it in his sleep, so he had no trouble hauling himself over wooden barriers that barely measured above his waist. On the other side, he dropped and rolled beneath a suspended log, filthy slush coating his fatigues and freezing him to his core as he leapt to his feet and repeated the process once—twice—three times.

His chest was heaving already. His lungs drew in dry, intensely cold air. It was a damn good thing he still had a few cough drops in his duffel from his last visit to self-care.

A thirty-yard sprint, and then he jumped up to traverse the monkey bars. It was a tight squeeze, only one bar separating the guys before and after him, but they couldn’t wait for a wider gap to emerge. They had to move. The drill sergeants were far enough behind that he could hardly make out their shouts of mingled derision and encouragement from this distance, and Ian didn’t plan on hearing exactly what brand of abuse they were hurling today.

The frigid metal ignored the thick material of his gloves and seeped into his palms, biting and burning and rendering it nearly impossible to hold on. He finished by the skin of his teeth. Close. Too close.

He had to do _better_.

This machine couldn’t fail. It _couldn’t_.

Another thirty yards, then a padded blue wall contrasted sharply against the dull grey and green scenery around it. Two recruits ahead of him, Tanaka lost his footing and fell on his knee at an angle that made Ian cringe in sympathy. But they couldn’t stop.

No soldier left behind.

Ian and Fischer dragged him upright by both arms and ran alongside him until his balance solidified. A minor misstep. Significant loss of time avoided. Lack of negative impact to the mission.

When it was Ian’s turn, he whirled around, leapt backwards onto the mat, and low-crawled to the ice-sheathed rope net. His boots slipped through the rungs, and he would have fallen if Davis’s arm didn’t brace his ass right in the nick of time.

Ten more feet.

Fischer’s outstretched hand reached down for him. Ian grabbed it and was hoisted onto the wood platform, returning the favor for Davis a moment later.

Not a favor.

 _Teamwork_. Unit cohesion.

Rappelling to the ground.

Running.

They didn’t save the hardest trial for last. No, it was placed in the middle of everything else, ready to trip them up so that nothing they accomplished afterward would mean shit. It wasn’t like in the movies: they didn’t crawl through the dirt with rifles in hand while their helmets protected them from the barbed wire above. That would have been too basic. They were a hairsbreadth away from Blue Phase. The challenges were greater and the learning curve steeper— _much_ steeper.

The barbed wire remained.

The rifle and the helmet didn’t.

They slid along on their backs, hands in front of their faces so the sharp prongs wouldn’t gouge an eye out should any of them lose focus. In the summer, this part probably would have been easier to traverse. Hard, packed earth was advantageous when you were relying on leverage to propel yourself across the ground. Instead, they had a soggy quagmire that had seen enough traffic for the terrain to be almost identical to a puddle of Frank’s vomit following a night of binge drinking and Oxys. It, too, caked Ian’s clothes like cold puke, the temperature instantly drying every drop of moisture against his face until his skin was stiff and crusty flakes stuck to his eyelashes.

Dirt and grime were nothing. That was why they invented showers. Besides, Ian couldn’t have looked any better or worse than everybody else. When Fischer grabbed him under his arms to hoist him clear of the wire and onto his feet, he was nearly unrecognizable beneath the brown sludge coating his face. So was Davis when Ian repeated the process for him. Maybe that was yet another latent function of what they were doing: to drive home the lesson that, as soldiers, all that set them apart were the accolades that decorated their uniforms. That was it. Their faces, names, and personal stories weren’t of any value here. Whether they died a hero’s death or were sent home with a medal for their efforts, they were just the cogs that kept a huge organism running.

A machine.

Ian didn’t falter in the subsequent fifty-yard stretch or diving into a wooden tunnel with no lights to inform him of how far his nose was from Fischer’s boot. He crawled through the shadows on his stomach like a snake, the chugging and whirring and beeping of the infallible machine to which he had been fused echoing in time with the beat of his heart. The space was so tiny that his shoulders were almost too wide to fit—it didn’t slow him down. Mud spattered his face from Fischer’s own struggles—it didn’t hold him back. Ian reached forward and gave him a shove when he got lodged in the shaft ahead, and then there was light—the stale air was gone—they were moving—they were running—they were _sprinting_ —

A lattice of heavy wooden beams. Knees high. Breathing shallow. Arms raised at his sides to preserve his balance.

_Thunk._

Ian’s boot grazed the edge of the final log. He reached out to brace himself—

_Not good enough—not good enough—not fucking good enough—_

The collar of his coat pulled taut around his throat as Jimenez and Davis caught him from behind. A cough. A nod to Davis. A grateful pat to Jimenez’s chest.

Run.

Ten yards.

Run.

Twenty yards.

Run, run, run.

Thirty—forty—fifty.

Funnel. In the open, they could move as a group, but the balance-beam was single-file. The last vestiges of ice clung to the structure despite dozens of boots cracking and knocking aside the worst of it. Once or twice, Ian felt himself listing to the side and corrected course, silently cursing Fischer for prolonging the window to fuck this up with his constant pauses. They needed to go they couldn’t stop here they had to keep moving and get to the other end was that Donovan when had he caught up why was he so close was he close or was that Ian’s imagination there was so much noise why weren’t they making any progress it was _time to fucking go, Fischer_ —

His feet sank an inch into the slush.

He was running. He was running running running running—

So close. They were _so close_.

He launched over another hurdle and plunged straight into a pit of jagged gravel that tore the skin off his arms as though he wasn’t wearing a shirt. More crawling. In pain, in agony, in _elation_ , in _exhilaration_ —crawling.

Clapping. Grinning. Hoots and hollers. Hands—so many goddamn hands—yanking off his hat, ruffling his hair, and wrapping him in celebratory embraces.

A breath.

They made it.

 _Ian_ made it.

Then _he_ was clapping. _He_ was grinning. _He_ was hooting and hollering and ruffling and wrapping. And it didn’t matter that Jimenez threw an arm around him or that Ian was pressed into him from shoulder to ankle as the cluster bunched together. Donovan’s briefing on the shit they _had_ fucked up couldn’t tear them down; getting smoked for three hours straight during their phase transition was a walk in the park.

Because _they made it_.

They were heading to Blue Phase.

***

Ian was keyed up all weekend.

Maybe it was their proximity to graduation. Maybe it was the lack of partying that typically would have accompanied an accomplishment of this magnitude where he came from. Hell, it could have been that he mainlined too much coffee to defrost once they returned to the barracks on Friday. Reasons didn’t matter. Ian was wired either way.

And why wouldn’t he be? This was a victory that outweighed anything he had ever done— _ever_. In his _life_. Showing David Gosinski that he wasn’t going to be a human punching bag? Child’s play. Testing out of English? Anybody could do that. Linda hiring him on, Kash asking him out not long after, faking Frank’s death, protecting Liam from Monica and Bob, earning his ROTC promotion, finally convincing Mickey to kiss him, testifying to what a piece of shit Frank was so that Fiona could win custody, _not_ getting his ass arrested for enlisting under a false identity yet… They were great, but they paled in comparison.

 _This_ was a high so intense that Ian allowed himself a couple of days to really enjoy it, to let his hair down a little and just go with the flow like the other guys. He smiled wider, talked more, laughed louder, and didn’t let it bother him that Fiona hardly managed an _I love you_ in response to his promised text. Everything seemed brighter and shinier than before, as if the world deigned to spin purely because he wanted it to. Arbitrary rules were palatable again. Key’onna was the friendly face she used to be. Ian could even tolerate Hampton’s bullshit for a change. There was a palpable warmth and energy and camaraderie between the soon-to-be soldiers in his unit that had been absent since… Fuck, he didn’t know when. The ride to base, perhaps? Whatever. It wasn’t important. They were great. He was great. Life was good, and Ian had plenty of company with which to share his enthusiasm.

Well, for a while. Daylight hours, mostly. Sleep graciously eluded him Friday and Saturday, probably too afraid of his reaction if it brought him down to earth, and Ian gladly filled the spare time where he had no one to talk to. There was tons of stuff that required his attention! All kinds of ideas about what he’d specialize in during AIT fought for dominance in his mind, and he scribbled them onto the pages of his rapidly filling journal slower than they occurred to him—lists and arrows and diagrams and shit he’d decided against and scratched out only to end up not writing them off after all and adding them wherever he found room. _If_ he could find room. Fuck. He needed to get another notebook.

Every now and then, he’d be forced to take a break thanks to his stupid fingers cramping. That was where Jimenez was somewhat helpful, though not entirely. In an unprecedented display of exhaustion, he had to call it quits after three rounds on Saturday night. Ian couldn’t blame him too much: Jimenez had a few years on him. It was no surprise that he had his limits. Nevertheless, the solitude left Ian with no other alternative than running laps around the latrine in vain to short-circuit the electricity that had taken up residence in his very bones.

Sunday morning, Ian abruptly registered that he was ready to drop. There was no warning or slow, steady realization. It hit him like a freight train that his legs were sore, feet aching, knees shaking, and back spasming at intervals. His stomach growled angrily at him for spending their meals entertaining useless, distracting conversations instead of clearing his plate. Hampton had returned to grumbling about Ian waking him up. Key’onna had mentioned on no less than seven separate occasions that he looked like death warmed over. Even Jimenez—quiet, contemplative, unobtrusive _Jimenez_ —told him that they should hold off on the sex for a day or two so that Ian could sleep through the night.

He didn’t _want_ to sleep, though! There was _so much_ to prepare for! Blue Phase and graduation and AIT and deployment and and and—

Jesus, he _hurt_.

“Damn, Gallagher,” mused Moreno, whistling. “I seen tweakers less strung out than your ass.”

Ian peered over the pull-up bar to frown at him, his voice strangled by the metal when he retorted, “Thought you were at service.”

“Skipping this week. Had to polish the knob, you know?”

He knew. _His_ wouldn’t be until further notice, so yeah. He knew.

Rolling his eyes, Ian let himself fall onto the mat and reached for the towel he’d set on the floor next to his canteen. The last thing he needed was for his shoulders to rebel along with his other overworked muscles, but if his brain wouldn’t oblige Jimenez and Key’onna’s demands (and Hampton’s bitching), then he had to do it the old-fashioned way—by wearing his body down until he passed the hell out. Undesirable as it was, a good night’s sleep would have him in shape again by morning.

Hopefully.

It took him a second to notice that Moreno was still standing there, watching him dry off and drink with a lazy grin that reminded him far too much of Mickey for comfort. The fact that he’d last seen it as Mickey propositioned Ian in the bedroom he shared with his fucking _wife_ didn’t really help.

“Need something?” he asked a bit more harshly than he’d intended. What he wouldn’t have given for something way stronger than water.

If Moreno caught wind of his agitation, he chose not to comment. Instead, he unnecessarily scanned the vacant gym and stepped so close that Ian was damn near pressed up against the wall. Before he could take it the wrong way—before he could think about a different wall in a faraway alley with someone else—Moreno’s hand slid into his pocket to retrieve…

A joint.

An unmistakable, perfectly rolled joint.

“ _You_ need somethin’?” inquired Moreno, his shit-eating grin not wavering for an instant under Ian’s incredulous stare.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“You seen that Chink at sick call? Small tits, huge ass?”

Ian blinked. “…No?”

Sighing in exasperation, Moreno muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ, gringo, you need to get your face outta the books. That bitch has got the hook-up.”

Of course, she did. The army was more like the South Side than any of his ROTC instructors had let on. There had to be dealers here, and where there were dealers, Moreno would sniff them out.

“So, you came here to…sell me weed,” guessed Ian quietly.

“Hell nah, man,” Moreno scoffed, slipping the joint into his hand without giving him an opportunity to decline and retreating a few steps. “Semper fi, right?”

“That’s the marines.”

“Who gives a shit? We on the same team.”

He wasn’t wrong. That didn’t mean he was _right_ , though.

“Thanks, but I… I don’t know,” Ian stammered and reluctantly moved to return Moreno’s contraband. _He_ could be the one to go down for this, not Ian. “It’s against protocol.”

Fuck if he wouldn’t _kill_ for a hit anyway…

His life would have been a whole lot easier if Moreno had simply accepted the joint, shrugged, and let him finish his workout. Therefore, the laws of nature dictated that he’d do the opposite.

“C’mon, pussy, it’s medicinal.”

Raising his eyebrows incredulously, Ian parroted, “Medicinal.”

“Yeah. Help you sleep so Hampton don’t strangle you.”

“Hampton didn’t last two minutes in hand-to-hand. He’s not gonna _strangle_ me.”

“Pool’s at four-to-one odds on it.”

“You’re taking bets?” Ian chuckled in spite of himself.

There was the shrug. “Fuck yeah. Easy money.”

South Side mentality. Right.

Who was Ian to judge? If not for the regulations, he might have taken those odds. Then he and Lip would have orchestrated a scam to guarantee that they’d win and dumped the cash into the squirrel fund after Fiona let them skim a bit of spending money off the top. Their pot drawer didn’t stay stocked for free.

Not like this apparent gift, although he had little hope of convincing Moreno to change his mind. It was difficult enough to convince _himself_ to do what he regrettably had to.

“Donovan would have my ass,” he protested. Gallaghers stuck to their guns.

So did Moreno, who was halfway to the exit and showed no signs of stopping.

“What Mama Donny don’t know…” was what passed for goodbye, the door to the gym slamming shut behind him and the joint firmly clutched between Ian’s fingers.

_Fuck…_

It wasn’t a good idea.

It was a _terrible_ idea.

But…

But he winced at his strained muscles and dry eyes and Key’onna’s warnings and Jimenez’s ultimatums and Hampton’s irritation and the certainty that Donovan would make his life a living hell if he wasn’t in top form come tomorrow. He was getting blisters from too many push-ups on the cold tile in his barracks, which were now red and swollen because of his two-hundred twelve pull-ups. He had to take two extra showers yesterday to wash off the sweat, first from a spare workout and then again once Jimenez went to bed.

There were limits. Frank had proven that. Monica had too. Every party had to end, preferably after the fun and prior to the hangover kicking in. It had been a great weekend. He’d accomplished a ton. He was feeling amazing in every way except physically. He had his shit together, he’d committed to an attainable future, and he was completely over the stupid fucking crush that had almost wrecked his entire life.

All he needed was sleep, focus, and determination. At the moment, he was operating on two out of three.

Every party had to end.

“There you are!”

Ian started, tucking his _medicinal_ joint between the folds of his towel and smiling wearily in the face of Key’onna’s reproachful glare. It was a testament to how tired he must have been that he hadn’t heard the door open. So much for Jimenez being the one who needed to work on his stamina.

“Here I am.”

Unimpressed, she crossed her arms and berated him, “You were supposed to be getting some rest, Gallagher.”

“Uh-huh. And _you_ ,” he emphasized while gathering his stuff, “were supposed to be at service, Everett.”

“It’s after noon.”

…Shit. He’d lost track of time. No wonder she’d hunted him down. Key’onna had made a habit of asking him if he would go to her Protestant Service so religiously that he could set his watch by it. Ian never did, Lip’s barbed criticisms of organized religion ringing in his ears, yet she was persistent.

As his battle buddy, she also located him immediately following the service unless he was in the barracks. Where he _had_ sworn to stay this morning at breakfast.

Wow. She must have believed him. That would explain why she was staring at him with a look that could strip paint off a wall.

Holding his free hand up in mock capitulation, Ian strode towards the exit. Key’onna was hot on his heels as he assured her, “I was just about to head back.”

“Sure, you were.”

“I was!”

“I’m not above paying Moreno to tie you to your bunk.”

Ian shot her a skeptical glance. “You’d actually talk to him?”

“And you’d owe me big time,” she grumbled. Her expression was significantly less menacing when she shoved him for his involuntary snicker. “So, save me the trouble and go get some _sleep_.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll go get some sleep,” he promised, careful not to grip his towel and its illicit cargo too tightly.

With any luck, he wasn’t lying this time.

***

The key was to strategize. In a sense, the process was similar to fortifying the house against Frank when he eventually returned from another bender. Time and location were essential. They had to move quickly and without hesitation so that he wouldn’t beat them inside during the school day or while they slept, and the obstacles in his path had to be positioned perfectly to halt him in his tracks. New deadbolts weren’t effective if Frank could find a crowbar or a hammer or break a window or lure Carl outside with a dead rat from the basement. That meant they were well-versed in the tactical value of every point in the house: where to intercept, where to barricade, and where to tackle him that wouldn’t end in severe head trauma or homicide charges.

This was far simpler. For one thing, it didn’t require hauling a hundred sixty pounds of reeking alcoholic to the nearest dumpster. For another, there was no potential property damage involved. Sneaking out for a joint was easy as fuck. He could expertly do it at fourteen, and his training merely added to his competence.

Ian set a time: 0130. He spent most of the afternoon lounging in his bunk or dozing on and off, uncomfortably conscious of Jimenez’s gaze occasionally drifting towards him, but they were observed too closely for him to risk employing illicit assistance any earlier. Three hours of sleep was still probably more than he’d averaged for a couple of days, and hey, he could always hit Moreno up for more if this went well.

Ian set a location: outside, at the left front corner of the barracks. Ideally, he would have used the latrine to avoid the cold. This wasn’t like the school bathroom, though, which was permanently infused with the odor of low-quality weed. His principal also had nothing on Donovan. Detention versus a court martial? The choice was obvious. Those geometry theorems surprisingly had their uses, and Ian figured he had a three-foot blind spot where the security cameras couldn’t record him. He’d make it quick and be back in bed before anybody noticed.

An obstacle course. It was another obstacle course.

Rolling off his mattress at the right angle so the bed frame wouldn’t squeak or jar Hampton awake.

Slipping into his boots and tucking the laces in rather than tying them to prevent the leather from creaking.

Silently hiding the joint behind his ear and the lighter that had been waiting under his pillow after Key’onna walked him to the barracks in his pocket.

Tiptoeing to the exit.

Using his ID to block the latches on both sets of doors and ease them back into place.

The freezing air assaulted him immediately, and Ian cursed as he sidestepped into his calculated dead zone. He’d foregone his coat for the sake of expediency, and although it seemed like a good idea at the time, Ian was hard-pressed not to regret it now. But eyes on the prize. Smoke, then sleep.

The first drag was a homecoming.

It was sitting next to Lip on his bed, his nose bloodied for no damn reason. It was snatching bongs from Carl and taking a hit for himself. It was parties with Kev and V on school nights, teasing Debbie for her insistence that it was killing his brain cells, and trading relationship bullshit with Lip. Tinged with stale sweat and alcohol, it was Frank and Monica. It was a taste of home he hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

Ian held the smoke in his lungs until they burned from the effort, tilting his chin upward and releasing it gradually towards the night sky. Fuck. _Fuck_ , that was _good_. Eyes closed, he leaned heavily on the corner of the barracks and grinned. So, so, _so_ fucking good.

Another pull, and his shoulders eased. Tense as he’d been for days, he nevertheless hadn’t quite grasped just how bad it was. Not until he slumped forward with a breathless laugh. Why weren’t they allowed to have pot here? Shit.

Another pull, and it all slowed. The wind didn’t buffet him so hard. His fingers slid sluggishly through his hair, tugging at the ends he’d have to trim soon. The endless stream of thoughts and notes that spilled out of his mind and pen respectively was reduced to a trickle, then a single droplet. He was tired. Jesus, he was so _tired_.

Another pull, and you know what? Fuck the army. Why did they get to tell him what to put in his body? The food he sometimes ate, the cigarettes he didn’t suck on, the guys he couldn’t sleep with—how come that was their business, huh? He was _great_. He was going to sleep tonight. He was going to start Blue Phase tomorrow. He was going to be an officer and successful and get shit to put on his chest and go home a hero and—

Sleep tonight.

Then ask Moreno if he could get more so Ian could sleep through other nights too.

Another pull. Another. Another.

His eyelids were so heavy that he could have fallen asleep on his feet if the door didn’t crash open, startling him into alertness at the same moment Donovan tore out of the barracks in a towering, terrifying fury that pierced Ian’s mounting high like a balloon.

Goddammit. How long had he been outside?

Long enough, apparently, because Donovan wasted no time in screaming, “Private! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

The South Side wasn’t merely a neighborhood or a place on a map. No, it was a chromosome inextricable from the DNA of anybody born there. According to Lip, that was how they survived in a world where the cards were stacked in favor of rich assholes and not the people who deserved it. Ian hadn’t bought into that part: he was a firm believer that if you tried hard enough, you’d get somewhere. Maybe not exactly where you wanted to be, like West Point or to boyfriend status, but _somewhere_. However, Lip did make one incontrovertible argument in that there _were_ cards that would never be stacked in their favor. And when the dealer started cutting the deck, the South Side genes hopped behind the wheel.

That was why Ian _ran_.

He knew it was the dumbest fucking decision as soon as he made it, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because Donovan was chasing his ass.

What his T.I. yelled was lost on him beneath the sounds of Ian’s unlaced boots and thundering heartbeat. The joint went flying—he was in plenty of trouble without adding contraband into the equation.

Where was he going to go?

There _was_ nowhere to go. He was on base. Donovan knew who he was. He’d been standing right under a goddamn light. With bright red fucking hair. He was a human beacon.

He had to stop. He’d accept his punishment like a man. Like a _soldier_.

He didn’t. His legs kept going, ignoring his brain’s halfhearted orders to give up.

Soldiers didn’t give up.

Gallaghers didn’t give up.

Correction: they didn’t give up when fucking water fountains stayed the hell out of their way.

At least it didn’t nail his junk. The pain radiated from his thigh to his toes instead as he rounded the next corner of the building and went sprawling across the sidewalk, dragging the entire ancient, rusty spigot with him.

He didn’t have a chance to bemoan his bruised pride and scraped palms before he was drenched in a steady stream of ice-cold water or Donovan screamed down at him or the entire barracks—male _and_ female—were compelled to join them in nothing but their regulation sleepwear. There was no drying off or standing or explaining why the fuck he was out of bed much less out _here_.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

“March along, sing our song, with the army of the free.”

There was shivering.

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

“Count the brave, count the true, who have fought to victory.”

There were stinging cuts digging into the rock salt.

_Seven._

_Eight._

_Nine._

“We’re the army and proud of our name!”

There was water. Lots of fucking water.

_Ten._

_Eleven._

_Twelve._

“We’re the army and proudly proclaim: first to fight for the right, and to build the nation’s might, and the army goes rolling along.”

There were eyes. All the eyes. Every eye. Watching. Glowering.

_Thirteen._

_Fourteen._

_Fifteen._

“Proud of all we have done, fighting till the battle’s won, and the army goes rolling along.”

There was Key’onna, fists clenched at her sides in his periphery and a glint in her eyes that reminded him of Fiona when he was sick and she used to take his temperature.

_Sixteen._

_Seventeen._

_Eighteen._

“Then it’s hi! hi! hey! The army’s on its way.”

There was Jimenez, his expression unreadable.

_Nineteen._

_Twenty._

_Twenty-one._

“Count off the cadence loud and strong.”

There was Hampton and his smug, suspiciously knowing smirk right over Donovan’s shoulder.

_Twenty-two._

_Twenty-three._

_Twenty-four._

“For where’er we go, you will always know that the army goes rolling along.”

Ian was fortunate. Most of his high had worn off pretty quick, but it dulled the edges of the residual pain. Push-ups and singing under a spray of frigid water while the rest of his unit learned a valuable lesson about following instructions was a small price to pay.

_Twenty-five._

_Twenty-six._

_Twenty-seven._

“Valley Forge, Custer’s ranks, San Juan Hill and Patton’s tanks, and the army went rolling along.”

He could have been court martialed. He could have been sent back to Chicago in shame and humiliation far more devastating than what he felt now.

_Twenty-eight._

_Twenty-nine._

_Thirty._

“Minute men, from the start, always fighting from the heart, and the army keeps rolling along.”

He wasn’t. As fucking embarrassing as this was, as annoying as the lecture he’d get from Key’onna tomorrow would be, this would pass. The sun would rise in the morning, and they’d get on with their training.

_Thirty-one._

_Thirty-two._

_Thirty-three._

“Then it’s hi! hi! hey! The army’s on its way.”

They’d get on with the incongruity of grabbing life by the balls yet agreeing to the dumbest rules, buying into the incessant preaching about independence yet having to be whatever their drill sergeants wanted them to be. Sprinting towards the future yet forever shackled by the same helpless bullshit that haunted his past.

_Thirty-four._

_Thirty-five._

_Thirty-six._

“Count off the cadence loud and strong.”

But first…

_Thirty-seven._

_Thirty-eight._

_Thirty-nine._

“For where’er we go, you will always know that the army goes rolling along.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish you all a very happy Shameless Premiere Day tomorrow!


	8. Part 1.7: Burn

“Grenade, right!”

There was no explosion. Earth and stone didn’t erupt from below. A deafening blast didn’t rend the relative stillness surrounding their location.

Ian nevertheless threw himself to the left, grunting as he painfully landed on his shoulder, and low-crawled into position behind the hollowed-out shell of a car that probably hadn’t started since the nineties. All that betrayed his presence were footprints and a shallow trench in the snow, though there was nothing he could do about that even if he had the time to spare. Besides, it was a moot point: their adversaries were aware of their presence. They’d witnessed him entering the course just like they saw Hampton mirror him in the shadow cast by a wooden barricade twenty yards away.

Firing positions one and two: secure.

Weapons: armed and ready.

Their eyes met. Ian shifted his M16 to lean against his shoulder so he could flash the visual signals they’d memorized, and Hampton responded accordingly.

In position.

Prepared to engage.

On three.

Two.

One.

His rifle clanged loudly against the chipped paint of the metal rust bucket he was using for cover as he surfaced on his knees. He centered on enemy target three within the span of a breath thanks to the insane number of hours they’d spent in the first two UAC stations last week. Tapping the trigger ignited a string of earsplitting shots that struck his faux assailant in its neck and chest. Then it was gone, knocked clean to the ground. So was an identical plywood cutout on the opposite end of the field, Ian noticed.

Enemy targets one and three: eliminated.

Ducking out of the open, he cast a sideways glance at Hampton where the latter’s hands were already in motion. Registered visual signal: _go_.

Returned signal: _short-range_.

Ian crouched as close to the ground as he could and once again darted left towards another car that had seen better days when Frank was still sober, huddling next to the rear fender of firing position three until Hampton arrived at firing position four slower than anticipated. In spite of that, their mutual dislike was temporarily forgotten; the roiling friction that belied their required professional interactions, on hold. They didn’t carry their animosity onto the battlefield even though it had only grown in ferocity since Hampton fucking snitched on him for being out of both his bed and the barracks without permission a couple weeks ago. (That, at least, was what Ian concluded. The shithead’s petty, irritatingly smug grin the following morning had been a stark contrast to most of their unit not looking at or speaking to Ian for two days unless it was mandatory for their training, so it wasn’t hard to guess what had happened.)

Hating each other’s guts didn’t matter, however. Neither did spilled milk or whatever they wanted to call it. They had to _trust_ one another. Ian had to be prepared to place his life in Hampton’s hands, unflinching and unquestioning. Trust, or the nearest imitation, was paramount in their line of work.

So was _time_.

Displayed visual signal: _cover_.

A pause for Hampton to inspect, calculate, and respond.

Registered return signal: _confirmed. Clear._

Hampton’s M16 rang out over Ian’s harsh breathing as he zig-zagged between firing positions five and six. The soft ground made his boots stick like suction cups, popping and squelching with each footfall in time to the beat of rifle fire. The pair that comprised enemy target five would have had a straight shot at him if not for Hampton’s obnoxiously stellar marksmanship, which provided Ian the opportunity to gun down a matching enemy target two while simultaneously counting their remaining inanimate opponents.

Registered visual signal: _ground units dispatched._

Returned signal: _six assailants in aerial positions. Advance right._

Registered visual signal: _cover._

Peering cautiously around the barricade, Ian repeated his scan of the brick façade that had been designed to look as similar to a standard city block as possible and silently noted the shadows hovering in the windows. Two pairs, and two singles. Not well hidden to a trained rifleman’s eye. Partial protection behind structural elements. The high ground offered less maneuverability but increased visibility, which put Ian and Hampton at a disadvantage from this distance. The enemy was within range, but Hampton would have a better shot _and_ maintain cover further ahead. There weren’t any obvious aggressors in his path or places for them to hide.

Ian was about to signal that the terrain was all clear when Mulligan shouted from the spectator post behind them, “Automatic rifle fire, enemy target seven to firing position four!” 

_Fuck._

Of course.

Not ideal. Not ideal at all.

But they could work under those conditions. They had to.

Enemy target seven was another duo, and the trajectory to reach their position was steep at Ian’s current spot. As steep as the window in his room at home when they peeked through the blinds to see whether Frank had passed out in the yard or the view to the ground from atop the abandoned buildings where he and Mickey had built obstacle courses not too dissimilar to this one.

Steep. Not impossible.

Displayed visual signal: _hold position. Wait for cover fire._

Registered visual signal: _confirmed._

It was a little unorthodox, but nobody had mentioned anything about not appropriating a strategic location from their fallen foes, right? In a real combat scenario, that option would be available to them, so it wasn’t like Donovan could fault Ian for applying some ingenuity to the exercise.

Creative thinkers. That was what Colonel McNally said they needed.

The _real_ Lip didn’t have a monopoly on creativity.

Ian exploited their assailants’ hypothetical distraction to sprint across the handful of yards that separated him from where enemy target three had once stood—and the risk was worth the departure from Mulligan’s conventional instruction. Through the broken windows of the burnt-out SUV, he easily picked off the two dummies in the upper left frame and was setting his sights on the adjacent enemy target six before Hampton safely arrived at firing position seven and cleared enemy targets four and eight from the lineup.

Then there was silence.

Ian took a deep breath, gripping his M16 so tightly that he might have dented a less sophisticated weapon.

_Wait for it… Wait…_

“Visible enemy targets eliminated!” Mulligan announced.

At the other end of the station grounds, Hampton automatically rolled onto his stomach, his rifle trained on the open doorway that led into the practice structure. Well, the _sort of_ structure. In reality, there was nothing inside. The two preceding UAC stations had required them to sweep entire buildings and neutralize enemy threats that could be hiding anywhere within their radius, but this changed it up a bit. The danger was all out here on this run.

This part? This was the icing on the cake.

The barrel of Ian’s M16 dug into his shoulder as he left cover and vigilantly hurried in the direction of the entry point. Mulligan and Donovan didn’t alert them to further threats or throw more wrenches into the operation. Instead, it was smooth sailing until he stepped over the threshold into yet another puddle of half-melted snow and wet grass. Telegraphing his gestures for Mulligan’s benefit since he was doubtless still observing through binoculars and assessing Ian’s performance, he systematically swept the immediate vicinity for nonexistent enemy combatants and then signaled that Hampton was safe to join him. As they’d been taught. As they’d studied. As they’d practiced. Everything according to their training and not a centimeter’s deviation.

Their success spoke for itself, and no sooner did Hampton’s boots touch the ground on Ian’s side of the door than a whistle heralded their victory, sharp and clear and sweet.

Or as sweet as it could be when Donovan informed them that they had finished the course with barely a minute remaining on the clock. One minute.

_One_.

And he said it like that was a _good_ thing.

In war, one minute was the difference between life and death, which Mulligan eagerly reminded them prior to dismissing their unit to shower and eat. In war, one minute was all it took for everything to go to shit and your leg to get blown off or your family to have a letter delivered to their door.

One. Minute.

Had anyone else cut it that close? They must have. Ian hadn’t really been paying attention, too busy making the most of being assigned the final performance slot to review their lessons in his head and formulate dumb plans that he hadn’t employed in the heat of the moment. If he had, perhaps he would have been free of the gnawing, stinging failure that settled in his chest like a rock.

One minute.

_“We need all the creative thinkers we can get.”_

Even when he _was_ Lip, he wasn’t creative enough. Not _good_ enough.

Otherwise, he’d have done better than one goddamn minute off the time limit.

Maybe Hampton was pleased with that shit, but the specter of Donovan shouting their results reverberated off the walls of Ian’s skull in a scornful mockery of approbation. They could have done better—communicated more succinctly as a team, moved with greater conviction, aimed with higher precision.

_“I can do a hundred push-ups at a time, run a six-minute mile, and hit a freckle from two hundred yards with an M16.”_

So, what? He _couldn’t_ complete an urban assault course in an acceptable period. He _couldn’t_ be what all their drill sergeants wanted him to be.

He couldn’t be what _he_ wanted to be.

One minute.

“Nice job, Gallagher,” Key’onna congratulated him when they separated outside the barracks, her grin as wide as the margin by which they’d allegedly succeeded.

One fucking minute.

Ian did his best to smile but couldn’t pull that off either, muttering his gratitude and stalking inside to take the most blistering shower imaginable.

Because they could have been quicker. Moreno and Newman had clocked in nearly seventeen seconds sooner than they did. Davis and Key’onna? Twelve seconds.

One minute.

What had they done wrong? Was it how Ian’s boot sank into the mud behind firing position five? That may have been part of it. And that wasn’t touching on how Hampton might as well have been going in slow motion at the initial sound-off. With another partner, they could have lost a good ten seconds of wasted time.

But no. They were one minute from too late.

Not good enough. As always.

Ian’s blunt nails traced dull red lines along his arms as he scrubbed away the dirt and sweat yet couldn’t eradicate the frustration or humiliation, voices filtering in and out of tune around him in the neighboring shower stalls. How fucking ironic was that? In urban combat, he _still_ wasn’t good enough. That was his home turf, unlike the privileged privates who’d been shipped in from the sticks. If anybody should have passed this exercise by a mile rather than a nose, it was Ian. This was in his goddamn blood whether he wanted it to be or not. Tactical navigation and combat in urban environments? That shit was easy compared to what the locals did to survive. They fought with their fists, throwing punches and utterly disregarding the prospect of collateral damage. When push came to shove and the water bill was overdue, that was how they made ends meet. The alleys were a language that they all spoke fluently, some corners crying safety while others bore a warning sign that the cops were on their tail. Ian had grown accustomed to the fishbowl that was walking down the crowded city sidewalks, windows high above him the equivalent of front-row seats to his every step and gesture.

Shutting off the water and absentmindedly wrapping a towel around himself, Ian trudged to his bunk and got dressed in even lower spirits than before. There was only one explanation. Despite everything—despite doing all that he was told and letting the military control him from the instant he woke up until the moment he was supposed to go to sleep—

He was getting soft. In the _army_.

How the hell did _that_ happen?

_“The nature of combat’s changing.”_

“Seriously, what’s the fucking point? You don’t need guys on the ground to take care of some asshole thugs holed up in a building. They make drones and shit for that now.”

Ian blinked, Hampton’s haughty tirade tugging at his straying attention en route to the DFAC. Which…was where they were going. For dinner. Right.

Amidst the rolled eyes and incoherent grumbling, Davis tiredly preached, “Drones aren’t optimal for urban combat.”

That made Hampton chuckle derisively. “Yeah, whatever. It’d be effective.”

“If you wanted to blow up the whole street, maybe.”

“Or the whole city,” added Fischer.

“The way half those shitholes look, we’d be doing them a favor,” Hampton argued, waving them off.

_“We need all the creative thinkers we can get.”_

It came out of nowhere. The late February breeze was brutally cold, yet Ian was suddenly sweating beneath his fatigues. His fists were balled at his sides, and his blood was boiling.

_“We need all the creative thinkers we can get.”_

Creative thinkers like Hampton? Yeah. Okay.

“Ever heard of civilian casualties?” scolded Key’onna. Her disdain was a fly hitting the windshield for all the credence it garnered.

“Ever heard of acceptable loss?”

“That’s for damage sustained from enemy combatants,” Davis observed, “not attacks on our own civilians.”

Shrugging, Hampton shot back, “If a bunch of hood rats are going to _act_ like the enemy, we should treat them like it.”

Moreno snorted, and his eyes flashed with poorly concealed anger. “Good idea, cabrón. Nuke your own shit.”

“Did I fucking say that?”

“You say lots’a shit. Hard to fucking keep track.”

It was a relief to hear Moreno address his crap, because Ian’s jaw was beginning to ache from grinding his teeth. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let this shit get to him. He wouldn’t say a word.

He _wouldn’t_.

His hands were shaking. It was so fucking _hot_.

“Get someone with the right amount of brains and skill, and that’s all you need,” huffed Hampton. He gestured vaguely westward, where the UAC was situated a mile off. “That chopper at station four? Get that in the air overhead, then watch the cowards run for their lives. Won’t have to drop anything on them.”

“You _can’t_ drop anything on them,” Ian’s mouth decided to interject. “It’s got a _surface_ -to-air missile launcher.”

_Shit._

Hampton’s acerbic glare didn’t cut as deeply as he probably wanted it to. “Not the fucking point.”

“So, what _is_ the point? You getting off by playing the big, tough man?”

_Stop. Stop stop stop._

That was what Hampton did. Right in his tracks, so that he could wheel around and get in Ian’s face.

“It’s called being _smart_ and not wasting resources on ghetto trash like _you_ that doesn’t deserve it,” he spat, flecks of saliva spraying Ian’s cheek.

_“The nature of combat’s changing. We need all the creative thinkers we can get.”_

_“What, you’re really gonna be a baby about this?_ You’re _the only reason I was even hanging out with that water-boarder McNally.”_

Lip was right.

_“The nature of combat’s changing. We need all the creative thinkers we can get.”_

He was fucking _right_.

So was Ian.

Control. That was what this boiled down to. _Control_. Power. Following orders—and for what? To lord their might over _ghetto trash_ like him—like he always would be?

_“The nature of combat’s changing. We need all the creative thinkers we can get.”_

What possessed him to do it, Ian couldn’t begin to comprehend. All he knew was that one second, he stood toe-to-toe with Hampton, refusing to be cowed into a full retreat. The next, Ian was shoving him hard enough to send Hampton staggering backwards as he snarled, “It’s _called_ being a pretentious asshole who waves his dick in everyone’s face.”

For a fraction of a second that felt interminable, time stopped. Nobody moved; nobody spoke. As far as Ian was concerned, they didn’t exist. There was just Hampton, Ian, and his racing pulse.

Then the universe hit play on the shitshow.

“The _fuck_ did you say to me, Gallagher?!” yelled Hampton, unexpectedly lunging at him. Ian didn’t have a chance to dodge, and the air audibly whooshed out of his lungs as he hit the ground with Hampton pinning him to the sidewalk.

He had to hand it to the guy: he got one good punch in. That was _all_ he’d get, however. It was about time Ian showed this prick what _ghetto trash_ like him could do.

Fuck the Army Values. Ian was South Side.

Wheezing from the fall, hissing at the pain in his ribs where Hampton and the concrete had struck him, Ian instinctively kneed him in the groin and was instantly rewarded with a string of breathless curses. He couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear, incongruous as it was to his fury, which hadn’t abated in the slightest. Was that aiming below the belt? Yeah.

Good.

It was a simple feat to use Hampton’s temporary immobilization against him, shoving him sideways to get reacquainted with the pavement so that Ian could scramble onto his feet. He was ready. He was _past_ ready for this shit.

At home, they would have been left to their own devices. The fight ended when one of them tapped out or got knocked out. Any bystanders would take wagers on who that would be, money changing hands with a casual grace that years of arrogance, boredom, and a lack of real consequences engendered. Ian would have been free to kick Hampton in the stomach while he was down, straddle him, and beat his ass to a pulp like _he_ deserved.

This wasn’t home.

Ian’s boot didn’t connect. Multiple pairs of hands grappled him from behind, wrestling him back while his arms flailed wildly in a futile attempt to break free. Key’onna was saying something, her hands on his cheeks, but he couldn’t separate her words from all the others being thrown about or tear his gaze away from where the same thing was happening to a struggling, seething Hampton.

“Cut it out, you two!”

“Hey? _Hey_!”

“Look at me, not at him—come on!”

“You wanna get fucking court martialed?!”

“Man, he ain’t worth it!”

“Should we get Donovan?”

“Yeah, get fucking Donovan!” crowed Hampton, vicious and frenzied even as he quit trying to pull away from the guys that wouldn’t let him get his head caved in. “He hit me first!”

Oh, he wanted to play it like _that_ , did he?

Nelson, who was so scrawny that Ian had no clue how he’d managed to help subdue anybody, maintained his hold on the bastard. “You hit him _back_ , numb nut. You’re both in deep shit if Donovan finds out.”

Yes, they would be. And for once, Ian didn’t give a fuck.

He was _right_.

Right, right, right.

_Right_.

That was important. That was the _most_ important thing. More important than Hampton reluctantly obeying Davis’s order for his half of their unit to precede them to the DFAC. More important than Key’onna demanding to know what the hell was going through Ian’s head. More important than Jimenez’s visible confusion and the hand he kept at the small of Ian’s back long after the others let go. More important than anyone’s assurances that Hampton wasn’t worth the price he’d pay for attacking another recruit. More important than Donovan’s unreasonable outrage at their tardiness, Moreno’s gracious offer to plant contraband in Hampton’s mattress for their T.I. to find, and the adrenaline that didn’t cease its assault on Ian’s senses.

He was right.

He should have earned some fucking credit for being right.

He’d show them.

He’d show them all.

***

That night, Ian slept a whole hour.

On Tuesday, he didn’t sleep at all.

He paced the latrine until his knuckles were rubbed raw from dragging them across the roughly textured cinder block wall. Jimenez didn’t come. Not after Ian told him that he wasn’t in the mood. He was fine with it. He’d urged Ian to get some rest. To cool off. To let go of the shit Hampton said. Forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones. Build a bridge and get over it.

Fuck that. What did Jimenez know?

Nothing.

Hampton was another Frank—another Terry. The smart ass ran his mouth as if he was so much better than everybody else just because he’d grown up with money and never asked himself whether he’d receive what he wanted for Christmas or his birthday or in _life_. Wasn’t that why he was here? So that his dreams could be handed to him on a silver platter that Ian and the other _ghetto trash_ served up? They were the stool that he’d step on to get ahead, leaving them behind with sore backs and crushed fingers to toil away in obscurity.

Letting go of what he’d said translated to letting go of the implications. What kind of soldier gloated about scaring civilians into submission? What kind of soldier listened and did _nothing_? They weren’t discussing enemies in a foreign country who were attacking them for no reason. They weren’t dealing with fanatics and extremists that threatened their way of life. These were _civilians_ —American civilians. Who could say why they were illegally occupying an urban building, shooting at the military that endeavored to stop them? Ian had scrawled a thousand possibilities into his new journal, sideways and diagonally and upside down and any which way that would give him space to cram them in. Stealing money to pay the rent or the utilities, getting scammed into being in the wrong place at the wrong time, hunting down the thugs who stole your baby brother because your addict father traded him to save his own ass, going on drug and gun runs with your psychotic piece of shit patriarch since that was how it worked in your family. Lip was at the bank, sweet-talking a teller into divulging when the next armored truck would arrive to transfer paper bills to another location. Carl was setting detonators that didn’t really work. Debbie was on surveillance detail across the street, prepared to use Liam as a distraction. Ian was working out logistics for how they’d extract the cash without alerting anyone to their presence or inciting an altercation. Fiona was at home calling the electric company— _again_ —to tell them that the Gallaghers were good for their debts and would be paid up by the end of the day.

Then the helicopter arrived.

Terry was out of stock and sent his kids to pick up new inventory. That was how they made a living. It could have been drugs. It could have been guns. Didn’t matter. Same result. They did something stupid. They went in without a plan. They expected that their Milkovich name and reputation would bridge the gap. They were in a seedy part of the city—a seed _ier_ part of the city—where everything smelled like shit and everyone was packing. Deals were sealed. The products were exchanged. Mickey was flipping off their partners, and his brothers and cousins were heading for the car.

Then the helicopter arrived.

Kev and V didn’t know who they were entertaining at the Alibi, but it was someone important and _wanted_.

Then the helicopter arrived.

Debbie stole a baby from a birthday party due to some weird nurturing fetish.

Then the heliweird was the word for it. What was the deal with that? Debbie had been so attached to that old lady they’d rented from the nursing home to play Aunt Ginger, then the kid, _then_ the baby doll. Running the daycare appeared to sate whatever strange caretaker craving she had, but regardless, it _was_ strange. Or maybe not so much. At one point or another, they were all disappointed that they would never experience the dream: owning a nice house with new appliances, having extended family over for the holidawhat was their extended family even like? Fiona said that there were other Gallaghers out there and that Monica had family. As far back as Ian could remember, he hadn’t met any of them. Except Grammy. And Patrick. And Frank’s twin or doppelganger brother—whichever. And their Uncle Clayton. Or his father.

Not really.

Kind of?

Genetically. Not legally, so it didn’t count. Ian might have felt differently about the whole _not being Frank’s kid_ thing if Clayton had actually taken an interest. _Maybe_.

…No, definitely not. Aside from him being a nice enough guy that one time, Ian didn’t know him from any other dude on the street. Not that he cared to. He liked where he came from. The house that was falling apart in places yet would always be home, the van where he and Lip smoked through conversations about stupid shit they didn’t want anyone else to hear, the exercise they got whenever Frank appeared on the scene to sleep sprawled across the floor—none of it was perfect, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Why would he leave his _real_ family to go live with someone he’d never met before? That was Lip’s dumbest idea ever, and that included dropping out of school to take care of a baby he couldn’t be sure was even his. Moving in with a stranger would be awkward, especially when that stranger’s wife didn’t want him around for a visit let alone for good. Growing up there, Ian wouldn’t have been _Ian_ at all. He’d be someone else entirely, like the rich assholes who strutted around the South Side doing community service to help out the poor, indigent locals for _fun_ rather than to satisfy court ordeveryone wanted him to be something he wasn’t around here. Why was _Ian_ the one who had to change? Hampton could say whatever the hell he wanted without any consequences, but _Ian_ was out of line for going outside at night? _He_ wasn’t bothering anyone. _He_ wasn’t arguing that they should use extreme force against civilians. _He_ wasn’t trying to bullshit everyone into agreeing that they’d be better off taking a helicopter andwaitaminutethatwasit.

Ian stopped dead in his tracks, his hands numb from the chafing and the rest of him buzzing with impulsive glee. It was a great idea. Moreno always called Hampton a bitch, right? So, why not _treat_ him like a dog? When dogs did stuff they weren’t supposed to, they had to be retrained. That was the purpose of BCT, and if the drill sergeants weren’t going to smack him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, then it was Ian’s duty to pick up their slack. The _Blue Book_ said so. Somewhere. One of the pages talked about initiative.

_This_ was initiative! A member of his unit wasn’t behaving in a manner befitting a soldier in the U.S. army. He was pissing on the rug—climbing up on the furniture—breaking into the cabinet where they stored the food. Fiona wouldn’t so much as entertain the notion of getting a dog when they were kids because of that and the inconvenience of having another mouth to feed and more bills to pay when it had to go to the vet there was no free clinic option like there was for them and really that would be like having another kid to look after when she had her hands full as it was none of them were equipped to take care of an animal what with her juggling multiple jobs and Lip constantly working overtime on his next scam and Ian splitting his limited hours outside of school between the Kash and Grab and ROTC and Debbie being more into treating little kids like pets and Carl needing to be reminded that blow torches and cats didn’t go together and Liam being way too young to have any sense of responsibility foisted upon him there would be plenty of time for that later when he was older and honestly it wouldn’t be too long he was already a toddler as a matter of fact and all of them had begun contributing to the household by seven or eight Carl was the exception because it was Carl and the rest of them had it covered most of the time well not _most_ of the time just some of the time until DCFS rolled through to tell them everything they were doing wrong as if it wouldn’t cost them far more money than they could collectively earn in a month to repair shit that had been broken or missing for years although Ian had a bit in his checking account now that he could send home but then Fiona would ask where it came from and he’d have to explain where he was and maybe she’d be proud but maybe she’d also want to come tear him a new asshole in front of his entire unit which wasn’t going to happen in a million years because she never had to find out at least not anytime soon oh fuck he forgot to text her over the weekend he’d have to do that in the morning before they went to breakfast nobody would notice and even if they did who fucking cared Hampton had permission to be out of bed to snitch on him to Donovan so Ian could take three seconds to placate Fiona if she was worried she probably wasn’t but he’d promised that he wouldn’t go too long between messages and it had been almost two weeks again he really needed to come up with a system so that he didn’t get distracted man it was so hard to focus around here what happened to discipline and concentration huh but hey this was what he’d signed up for so he had to stick it out there wasn’t any leaving or there _was_ but not until they were done with BCT and then he could either continue on or leave but why would he leave he’d come this far and there was a lot further to go he’d have all kinds of colors on his chest when he got home and Hampton was going to be a measly private forever okay that was exaggerating because he would be out of here as soon as he could claim those college benefits whatever Ian would be a hero and Hampton would be a douchebag who couldn’t hack it in the long run it would pay off it had to pay off all this changing and marching and _yes drill sergeant_ and _no drill sergeant_ and Jesus was he ever going to catch a break there was nothing wrong with how Ian did things and the army clearly didn’t get that if they expected him to toughen up while idiots like Hampton got to go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and

At the far side of the latrine from where Ian stood, the door creaked open, startling him out of his reverie and into the nearest shower stall so that he wouldn’t be seen. It wasn’t Jimenez. It _couldn’t_ be. They’d agreed yesterday that their hook-ups were on a brief, annoying hiatus while Ian got it through his head that _he_ wasn’t permitted to have an opinion and _Hampton_ was.

Oh, right. That.

Ian almost laughed at himself for forgetting what he’d been doing in here to begin with but bit his cheek so that he didn’t make any noise. Big, bad Donovan wouldn’t want to be woken up in the middle of the night to read Ian the riot act again. He’d save his T.I. the trouble by keeping his mouth shut. A team player—that was Ian.

He listened to the footsteps that turned towards the urinals. He held his breath as whoever it was relieved themselves for longer than could possibly be healthy. He rolled his eyes at the unmistakable absence of a sink faucet after the flushing.

_Gross._

Then he was alone, and that was great. It was fucking _perfect_. His watch said that it was almost three in the morning, which gave him scarcely any time at all to teach a dog some new tricks.

Ian was going to make a terrific soldier.

There was a spring in his step when Ian emerged from the latrine and returned to his bunk as though he were walking on air. What could he say? It felt _good_ to have a purpose. Training was becoming a dull, monotonous chore where the promise of fulfillment was never truly realized. The drill sergeants alluded to their road being a marathon, not a sprint, and Ian appreciated that distinction. It didn’t erase the pleasure and satisfaction of having a more immediate goal at hand as he quietly donned his uniform, careful not to jostle his bunk. The entire operation would have to be scrapped if Hampton woke up. It defeated the purpose! According to him, _ghetto trash_ didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt or the courtesy of playing fair. What better method for giving him a taste of his own medicine than to extend the same lack of courtesy to him? He wouldn’t mind. He’d be grateful once the initial shock wore off. What was good enough for civilians was good enough for them. Goose and gander. That saying never made much sense to Ian. Where did people fabricate those odd aphorisms? And why continue to apply them when they were so antiquated? He’d have to make a few new ones—clever ones. What was good for the South Side was good for Glencoe? No. Too exclusive. You had to be familiar with Chicago to catch the reference.

He’d work on it later. There would be plenty of time! Right now, he was busy.

Escaping the confinement of the barracks was easy. The shadows were his friends, masking his passage from the hostile gazes of any other recruits who happened to be awake at this hour. They’d been granted a reprieve from waxing the floors the previous weekend, so the tile kindly refrained from drawing attention to the soft, unavoidable thumping of his boots. Hinges and handles and doors waved him through with identical enthusiasm, and Ian could have sworn they wished him luck like the cold wind that beckoned him forward into the crisp early morning air.

The journey was similarly uneventful. It took no significant effort to jog the two miles separating him from the UAC. There were no patrols to spot him. If Donovan had been informed of his departure by now, he wouldn’t be able to figure out where or why Ian had vanished. Not yet, anyway.

And when he _did_ , it would be pretty undeniable.

Smiling at the image of his expression that swam to the front of Ian’s consciousness, he quickened his pace. He couldn’t fucking wait. Hampton’s pussy crap—tackling him? Please—would look immature as hell once everybody got a load of this. Donovan would have to fork over a commendation for it. Ricci definitely would. Ian was a creative thinker. That was what they needed—creative thinkers! This was as creative as it got.

That was certainly more than he could say for station four.

The concept was straightforward: there was a structure that they were tasked with defending. Simple, in theory. So, the drill sergeants threw them a curveball by randomizing the attack patterns they encountered. In this instance, it wasn’t merely a matter of shifting some wood boards around so that they were standing at different target sites as they’d done with the first three stations. No, the very nature of the combat was dependent on a series of predetermined strategic configurations that wouldn’t be selected until they were already inside the course. One group would manage a relentless ground assault where wave after wave of enemy insurgents converged on their position from all sides; another could be forced to weather the storm of an aerial assault via any number of imaginary crafts.

_That_ was why the helicopter sat dormant a few yards from the building.

Creative thinking.

Technically, it was sort of pointless. What were the odds that they’d have access to surface-to-air missiles in a standard urban assault scenario? Slim. _Extremely_ slim. So slim that the enemy was more likely to have one than they were. This was a whimsical temptation, an alluring toy for the brave souls who were willing to risk everything on an improbable if not impossible outcome. In the midst of a firefight, the seemingly inconsequential distance to traverse was a veritable no man’s land where you’d be dodging bullets left and right. No amount of good fortune held under those dire circumstances, and if you weren’t dead before you took your first step from cover, your unit would be dragging you back inside while you bled out all over the floor. Whatever prize awaited your hubris, you weren’t getting near that helicopter. The disarmed surface-to-air missiles beside it would remain untouched. And, most importantly, you’d fucking fail.

But at three in the morning? At three in the morning, Ian leisurely strolled up to the cabin and pulled open the door with ease. The pungent odor of gunpowder and old leather was evidence of how long it had been since the craft was inhabited by more than spiders, and he brushed aside their vacant cobwebs to climb into the pilot’s seat.

Had he listed _pilot_ as one of his options for advancement? He wasn’t sure…

Making a mental note to add that to his journal when he had a minute, Ian hunched over to examine the console. This wasn’t a car on the side of the road where the keys were wedged into the sun visor. As such, he was doing this the old-fashioned way. The starter had to be there somewhere…

This was going to be amazing.

Where the hell was it…?

Hampton thought he was the brains around here. He _wasn’t_. Private Lip Gallagher outmatched him in every test, physical and written, because Private Lip Gallagher gave a damn. Private Lip Gallagher adhered to orders that didn’t make any sense because Private Lip Gallaher knew the value of working with a team.

There it was! This would be cake. All he had to do was break open the casing and expose the wires inside like the real Lip had taught him years ago…

What would he say if he could see Ian now? He’d be proud—no doubt about that. Lip had never been one for turning the other cheek where pompous, entitled dickheads were concerned. Ian assumed that was all he interacted with these days: those rich kids and trust fund babies at his university who didn’t comprehend the daily struggle in their neighborhood unless they saw it on television. Yeah, he’d smoke a celebratory joint with Ian and joke about Hampton pissing himself for years to come. That could be the first text he sent to Lip since he left home! Somehow, he had a feeling that his brother would respond more favorably to his choices than Fiona. After he finished giving Ian shit for enlisting. That was a given.

Helicopters were supposed to be made of strong stuff, weren’t they? Well, it looked like that was yet another falsehood. His ROTC instructors had apparently been full of them. Whether the industrial plastic had aged past its optimal durability or karma hated Hampton as much as he did, two swift kicks cracked the casing from top to bottom, and Ian wedged his fingers between the two halves to pry them apart.

Threatening civilians with surface-to-air missiles. Was he fucking serious?

There were…a lot more wires than he was accustomed to. A _lot_ more wires.

The joke was on Hampton. Any self-respecting Gallagher wouldn’t be afraid of him and his helicopters or his drones. Mickey? He’d flip him off with both barrels and go about his business. Hampton had no idea who he was dealing with.

Ian waded through the compressed sea of colors until he found a bundle of red, blue, and yellow that he would recognize anywhere. That had to be it. He wasn’t handling a car here, but how different could it be?

Fuck, he was going to be _such_ a tremendous soldier.

The process was as familiar as the stale bread and peanut butter Fiona used to throw in their lunches every day: strip the insulation, twist the battery wires together, and connect the ignition.

Lights. He had _lights_!

Tittering incredulously, Ian grabbed the starter wire and scraped the copper free on the edge of the broken plastic casing. A spark. It would only take a _spark_ —

“Shit— _fuck_!” he yelped, searing heat burning his left palm.

He hadn’t meant to drop the wire. Jesus, what a rookie mistake.

Where had all that sweat come from?

Ian rocked back and forth, clutching his injured hand close to his chest. Of course, he botched the first attempt. He knew this was going too smoothly.

But no pain, no gain.

His sole source of light emanated from the controls he’d successfully powered, and he leaned closer to see that yeah, his mistake was going to leave one hell of a scar. There was already an angry, jagged red line forming along the curve between his thumb and forefinger. Gripping his rifle today was going to be a _bitch_.

He could worry about that later.

_Shake it off. It’s fine._

His skin disagreed. He could have been holding onto a hot poker, it hurt so fucking badly to grasp the wires again and strike them together once—twice—three times—

Then it was all good.

The engine roared. A rhythmic, hastening whir grew louder and louder above him. At the front of the helicopter, a blinding floodlamp served as a beacon in the darkness.

There were black shapes in the distance. They were in motion.

So was Ian. Just…not how he’d hoped.

The craft was tilting sideways. Why was…

Oh, fuck.

He couldn’t tell whether he was laughing or cursing or a combination of the two. All that registered was that his knee had been leaning against the steering column this whole time, shoving it as far to the right as it could go—and he was too late to correct course now that the rotors were running at speed.

Grinding.

Sirens.

He was outside. How’d he get outside?

He was hoofing it away from the helicopter. The helicopter that was falling. The helicopter whose rotor was spinning and spinning and spinning and the blades were chopping and chopping and chopping through the dirt without resistance.

Maybe some resistance. Enough resistance for the engine to overheat and catch fire.

The snow glowed orange. The blaze illuminated the ramshackle structure they’d be fortifying on Friday.

Sirens. They were closer.

They could fuck off. Who let perfectly good weaponry rot in an empty field for the sake of dangling a carrot in front of their faces? What was the equipment out here for if not to be utilized?

And when was the last time a recruit had figured out how to start it without any training?! He’d made history. Sure, he was disappointed that his opportunity to teach Hampton a lesson was literally up in smoke, but he’d live. This was so much better. This was _so much better_!

His reflexive, uncontrollable laughter echoed across the barren hills, the shouts and sirens a meaningless backdrop that rapidly faded behind him. His legs carried him back towards the barracks, but for a second, Ian was convinced that he could fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~End of Part 1~
> 
> We made it! Thank you so much for sticking with me through the first third of the story. Part 2 will begin in the next update. In the meantime, I wish you all the very happiest of holidays and a much brighter new year than we got this time around. :)


	9. Part 2.1: Lightning

Sunlight streamed between the blinds, painting murky bars across the insides of Ian’s eyelids, but that wasn’t what woke him. No, he could blame that on the finger mercilessly jabbing his shoulder blade.

“Ian?”

Grunting, he rolled closer to the wall and folded his pillow over his exposed ear. His sluggish limbs said it was too early for him to greet the day, so he was content to indulge in dozing off again. Sadly, wordless refusal didn’t deter that finger, and it responded by renewing its efforts to tug him further along the road to consciousness.

“Ian, wake up.”

“Still sleeping,” he groaned, his voice sounding deeper and muffled within his ineffective bunker.

The incessant poking escalated to shoving. “Somebody’s gotta help me with the daycare. We had two new intakes yesterday.”

_Daycare…_

_Intakes…_

Recognition washed over him like a bucket of ice water, banishing the dust and cobwebs from his sleep-addled brain. It was Wednesday. Ian had completely forgotten. But then, the days and weeks had a tendency of blurring together in the summer. School wouldn’t recommence for another month, and he picked up so many extra shifts at the Kash and Grab to help Linda cover the place that he couldn’t rely on his normal schedule to keep him on track either. All things considered, he supposed he had earned a pass on his lapse in memory.

His assumption was an even bigger blunder that he was apparently going to pay for this morning. There went sleeping in.

So, Ian unenthusiastically sat up and rubbed the crust from his eyes, sensing Debbie’s lingering gaze well before he squinted to see her patiently leaning against the side of his bed. Based on the lack of screaming and abject mayhem downstairs, he guessed the horde hadn’t arrived yet, which was for the best given that…

“I thought Fiona said no more kids.”

She shrugged, remarkably unconcerned for someone who had been prioritizing the fine art of holding her breath over her—or technically _Fiona’s_ —daycare all summer. “Have to cover Jimmy’s share of the squirrel fund. They’re crawlers. Should be easy.”

_Should_ was the operative word.

“How many does that make?” asked Ian warily.

“Twenty-seven.”

“Jesus, Debs.”

“If we tire the toddlers out early, they’ll nap until lunch and then watch T.V. until pick-up,” Debbie outlined matter-of-factly. “I just need your help making sandwiches and playing _Fugitive_ while I’m on diaper rotations.”

Ian frowned. “What the hell is _Fugitive_?”

“It’s like tag, only backwards. One person hides, and everyone else looks for them.”

Smirking, he retorted, “Sounds like a short game.”

The withering scowl she shot him wasn’t as impressive as Mandy’s, but she was getting there. “They can’t even color inside the lines yet.”

Well, there was no arguing to the contrary: that definitely made a difference for any kid that wasn’t Carl. He had started wreaking havoc the second he learned how to hold his head upright. Whatever was worth Fiona going to the trouble of concealing it, he found it in record time. Normal kids from other families? It would likely take hours for them to accomplish the same thing if they didn’t get bored or tired or distracted—hours that Ian couldn’t spare today.

“I’ve gotta be at work by one or Linda’ll have my ass,” he said by way of apology. He _had_ hoped to meet Mickey beforehand for some ROTC training or a quick fuck while his dad was out of town on a run with his brothers, but she didn’t need to know that. Reaching for the jeans he’d tossed at the end of his bed last night, Ian gently nudged Debbie aside so he could stand and added, “Why can’t Fiona do it?”

“The sewage place called and said they had work.” Debbie plopped down in the spot he’d just vacated with a huff. “She won’t be home until dinner.”

“Lip?”

“At Karen’s, helping her find parents to adopt the baby.”

“What about Jimmy?”

“He went with Fiona.”

Ian froze, one leg in his pants and his other foot hovering in the air as his eyebrows crept up his forehead. “ _Jimmy’s_ shoveling other people’s shit?”

“Yep. Lip said he wouldn’t make it to lunch without throwing up.”

“Probably won’t make it an hour,” he amended. After a lifetime of dealing with everyone’s bodily functions, including Frank’s, Fiona had the balls for that sort of job. Jimmy? His dad stayed in hotels where the toilet cleaned your ass _for_ you. Ian was pretty sure neither of them actually knew how to use a plunger, so the idea of Jimmy mopping excrement was funny as hell.

“I’d ask Carl,” Debbie segued, “but he went turkey hunting with Little Hank at the pool.”

Seeing as his favorite game had always been _Loser Goes to Gitmo_ , Ian could easily predict that this wasn’t up his alley anyway. He’d lose interest immediately when she told him that he wasn’t allowed to lock the daycare kids in their basement, meaning she had literally no one else to count on besides Ian and Liam, who was hanging on the side of his crib with his chin perched on the bar and a little stuffed dinosaur in hand and absolutely no concept of what Debbie wanted.

…Okay, just Ian.

Whatever. He had time to kill before work. There was nowhere else for him to be in the interim, what with Mickey avoiding him ever since his dad beat the shit out of them and forced him to get married.

Nodding in reluctant submission, Ian finished swapping his tank top for a T-shirt and sighed, “Yeah, alright. I’ll help. But I can’t be late for work.”

Debbie was already on her feet and heading for the door, her appreciative smile softening the blow of wasting his breath as she called over her shoulder, “Great! You get Liam. I’ll start setting up.”

_Perfect…_

Ian glanced at Liam.

Liam offered his dinosaur in commiseration.

“Sorry, little man,” he murmured. Ruffling Liam’s hair, Ian plucked him from the crib. “We’re on sandwich duty.”

His responding whine was mournful.

“Me neither, but it looks like Debbie’s in charge today.”

The stegosaurus pressed insistently into his cheek.

He preferred that to anything scavenged from the sea of multicolored debris that was strewn about the living room when they descended the front stairs. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that a Toys “R” Us exploded in here, except half this shit was broken and the other half was simply old. There were Barbies sticking out from beneath the couch, their missing heads marking them as the likely victims of Carl’s homemade torture experiments. The busted baby stroller Fiona repeatedly attempted to throw away was overturned by the closet with five dolls balanced precariously on top to watch him approach. A plastic tub next to the T.V. was so full of stuffed animals that a toy unicorn’s pink synthetic fur skimmed the ceiling, and a few that hadn’t fit littered the floor around the animal carriers Debbie employed as time-out corners. Snapped and splintered crayons spilled from their container onto the coffee table; the couch cushions were shoved into the space between the armchair and fireplace in what Ian presumed was a half-assed imitation of a fort. On top of all that, his least favorite part had to be the stick figures that grinned and glared and laughed and cried at him in the creepy, disquieting kids’ drawings that lined the floor like brand new linoleum.

“Do you really give these to Veronica’s patients?” he skeptically inquired, depositing Liam in his highchair and beelining for the coffee. He was seriously going to need it today.

Debbie dumped a loaf of bread and an industrial-sized jar of peanut butter on the counter in front of him. “Most of them don’t have grandkids to send them stuff. The colors cheer them up.”

His eyes automatically landed on the picture closest to the kitchen: a black stick figure with black knuckle tattoos and black hair flipping off a taller black stick figure. The latter’s empty, featureless head bore a minuscule smattering of red at its crown.

Ian hummed past the lip of his mug. “Clearly.”

But they could discuss not prematurely sending old people into cardiac arrest later. For now, there were sandwiches to prepare—a lot of dry, flavorless sandwiches. The daycare kids would have to make do because they eventually scraped every bit of peanut butter from the jar and switched to normal butter on the final batch. It was beyond overkill, yet no matter how varied his insinuations that she’d taken on more kids than they could possibly accommodate were, Debbie fired the same answer at him: they’d all be thanking her this winter when the squirrel fund was full to bursting and the city didn’t cut off their gas. How was he supposed to debate that logic?

The promise of warm beds for Christmas in mind, they systematically and efficiently worked around each other. They arranged lunch. They got the kids checked in and lied through their teeth about Fiona being in the alleged office upstairs that, luckily, no one ever asked to visit. (In this neighborhood, when you ditched your kid at daycare so you could go to work without worrying that _they_ were working the corner in one capacity or another, ignorance was bliss.) Ian fed Liam, congratulated him on using the big-boy potty for a change, and chugged another cup of lukewarm coffee to wash down a couple of Pop-Tarts. Debbie oversaw the pseudo-art sweatshop and tasked Molly with helping Frank dig up Aunt Ginger’s bones in the backyard.

Surprisingly, Jimmy _didn’t_ come barging through the door ready to puke. Good thing Lip wasn’t around to place any bets on it earlier.

Smooth. Organized. Structured. Precise execution of the mission. Major crises averted.

That was what the army would call a success.

Then Ian discovered what a pain in the ass it was to _be_ the fugitive in Debbie’s game. Oh, he could tell why the kids loved it: _they_ weren’t the ones stuck in the crawl space under the house, waiting to be located or for Debbie to blow the whistle that signaled surrender so he could go take a very much needed shower. Spiders and worms didn’t typically bother him. Today, he wasn’t a fan as the minutes ticked by, no reprieve forthcoming.

An hour elapsed. Then two. Then three. Four.

Six.

Eight.

A familiar chuckle danced through the outside the air vent, and Mickey teased, “Hey, Gallagher. You still alive in there?” 

The crawl space shouldn’t have been so cold. Was that tile? Where did the dirt go?

“Come on, man. Ride’s here.”

Jimmy had brought a stolen motorcycle home from work last night. How the hell was he supposed to give Ian a ride on _that_?

“Let’s go. They ain’t gonna wait forever, vato.”

A boot prodded Ian’s knee, and he jerked awake.

Dark.

It was dark.

This wasn’t the crawl space under the house, though. Where…?

The drone of electrical equipment and Moreno’s face hovering a few feet from his own urged his wayward memories into clearer focus. He wasn’t at home. This was the barracks. Specifically, this was the closet where they stored the generators that supplied the barracks with power and heat. Ian had slept here rather than his bunk. He’d used his duffel as a pillow and changed into a set of the civilian clothes he’d hidden inside even though they were supposed to be in his personal bag.

…Because he _couldn’t_ sleep in his bunk. Because he _couldn’t_ wear his fatigues. Because…

A helicopter.

He’d tried to hot-wire a fucking helicopter, and the dull, throbbing pain in his left hand was an unnecessary reminder of how well that had gone. The only reason he was here—the only reason he hadn’t been caught and thrown into a holding cell until the brass could determine what to do with him…

Right. Now he remembered.

Against all odds, Ian had _Moreno_ to thank for saving his ass.

When Ian had trotted up to the barracks, his grin diminishing by a hair at the sight of his entire unit awake and rushing outside fully dressed, it was Moreno who had spotted him and urgently gestured towards the rear of the building. When the adrenaline had abandoned him where he stood flat against the brick, shivering and sniffling in the icy wind, it was Moreno who had doubled back and hissed that the whole base was hunting a saboteur that had done serious damage to their training equipment. When Ian’s laughter declined to be contained by his chattering teeth, it was Moreno who had put two and two together.

He hadn’t turned Ian in for it. Of course, Ian hadn’t done anything _wrong_ and this was all just a big misunderstanding, but he hadn’t reported that either. Just like Lip. Just like Mickey. He was no snitch.

For the first time since they’d met, Ian wholeheartedly appreciated Moreno’s characteristic lack of respect for authority and the army in general. Although he wasn’t from the South Side, he _was_. Those roots ran deep, and instead of ratting him out in a heartbeat like Key’onna would have, Moreno had elbowed Ian lightly in the ribs and praised him, “Damn, you one crazy motherfucker.”

And Ian had laughed again. Harder and louder.

He’d laughed until Moreno hushed him, motioning for Ian to follow his lead. Propping open one of the latrine windows, sidling down the maintenance hallway, picking the lock to the electrical storage closet—that was all Moreno.

_Moreno_ had gathered his belongings from his bunk so that they wouldn’t be confiscated when their T.I. inevitably noticed his absence. _Moreno_ had stolen gauze and bandages from the first aid kit in the latrine so that Ian could haphazardly treat his wound. _Moreno_ had convinced him not to explain or justify his culpability to Donovan. _Moreno_ had assured him that it would be best to get the fuck out of Dodge while he could, and Ian? He had been fine with that—he was fine with it now. If the army’s finest couldn’t comprehend why that helicopter had taken one for the team or that Ian was _right_ to make it happen, then _they_ were the lost cause here, _not_ Ian.

He’d had his fill of lost causes long before he’d arrived at Fort Leonard Wood. No more. He was fucking done.

That, too, would be facilitated by Moreno’s resourcefulness. Perhaps _semper fi_ did apply to them.

“Ready to get outta here, Gallagher?” his unexpected benefactor whispered, little more than a shadowy silhouette in the dim illumination of the equipment Ian had been sleeping under for…

Fuck. According to his watch, he’d been asleep for a while. All morning—all day—all night. In a few minutes, it wouldn’t be Wednesday anymore.

Weird. Must have been the excitement taking its toll.

Ian gingerly scooted out from beneath the generator’s steel housing rack with a nod and staggered unsteadily to his feet, a wave of dizziness nearly sending him toppling right back over. Oh. Yeah. That made sense. He hadn’t eaten since dinner on Tuesday.

…Hadn’t he? The DFAC had been serving… Something. They’d served something. Ian probably ate it.

Yeah.

The list of favors for which he would eternally owe Moreno grew another inch, his hand on Ian’s bicep all that kept him standing for a moment. Falling wouldn’t hurt, but it _would_ be loud. As far as he knew, nobody else was aware that he’d been hiding in here, and he wasn’t about to drag Moreno deeper into the shitstorm that would unfold should they get caught. He’d stuck his neck out for Ian’s sake when he didn’t have to—when Ian would never be able to repay him in a million years. The least he could do was not cause a scene or attract any undue attention as they peered into the maintenance hall to ensure that the coast was clear.

It was, yet Moreno stopped him before he could emerge and glanced pointedly at his bag.

“You got a hat?”

Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Ian breathed, “Yeah, why?”

“Your ginger ass is a fuckin’ beacon, man. Put it on.”

He had a point, and Ian was immediately glad that he’d visited the barber a week ago. It wasn’t a perfect fit: the beanie he quietly dug out of his duffel didn’t completely cover his longer tresses on top, but he’d shaved the sides and rear enough for Moreno to be satisfied that no one would recognize him from a distance— _if_ they were awake, which they _weren’t_.

The barracks were silent except for the regular chorus of breathing, snoring, and flatulence that grated on Ian’s nerves more in that instant than it had in over two months of living with it. Look at them all, asleep in their bunks after a long day of following orders to the letter and preparing for a future where they wouldn’t be able to take a dump without somebody scrutinizing their form. With any luck, they’d get a nice medal for their trouble and then fade into obscurity when their service ended. No one would care about them. Odds were that they wouldn’t get a half-decent job or most of the benefits they’d been promised once they didn’t or couldn’t hold a gun anymore. That was what Lip always told him. That was what had happened to Todd Iggulden’s brother. The Silver Star didn’t help him grow another foot, and their medical bills had piled up like anyone else’s. Soldiers weren’t special. Their drill sergeants ruthlessly informed them of that too often to ignore. Now, Ian believed it. Now, skulking along the aisle between bunks occupied by a couple dozen clones of Todd Iggulden’s brother, Ian really believed it.

He wouldn’t be like them. No fucking way. Let some asshole in a uniform try to change him—fix him— _control_ him? God, no. Fuck this place. Fuck its endless rules and regulations. Ian was sick of people telling him what to do and how he could be everything he’d ever wanted while simultaneously rendering it impossible for him to measure up to their ridiculous standards. He didn’t have to listen to that crap. Their standards were bullshit. He’d make his own. He was practically an adult! He had the _world_ at his disposal, begging him to explore it—beyond the South Side, beyond Chicago, beyond the army. Why would he waste that limitless potential to live by someone else’s rules?

That was for these guys. It wasn’t for Ian.

It wasn’t for Moreno either, not that he had much say in the matter. But he’d be okay. Of that, Ian had no doubt whatsoever. The army couldn’t steal his guts: they were iron and lead beneath his lackadaisical veneer. Guts like his weren’t the result of sitting in a boring classroom. They were born from the kind of environment where Ian had been raised and negated the need to ask why he would do all this for a random dude in his training group, especially one that had never particularly liked him. They took care of their own and had each other’s backs, blood or personal interest notwithstanding. They built roads where there weren’t any and opened doors that should have been locked. Lip and Fiona, Mickey and Mandy, even fucking Frank—Moreno was one of _them_.

The army would court martial him for it, too. For _all_ of it. For helping Ian in the first place, yeah, but the rest would be equally damning. Moreno stuck to his side so that, to the bleary eye, Ian could pass for his shadow—court martial. He used his ID to perform the same trick Ian had on the doors—court martial.

He yanked on Ian’s sleeve, drew his attention to a nondescript silver SUV idling by the sidewalk a few yards from the barracks, and jogged ahead to speak with the driver.

Court martial.

“Had to grease a few palms at sick call, but she’ll get you to the bus station. After that, it’s all you, man,” muttered Moreno as Ian approached, cautiously eyeing the driver. Either she was a civilian or off duty, because she sure wasn’t dressed like she was meant to be on base.

Possibly two court martials, then.

“How much? I can pay you back when I get…” Ian trailed off. Their income during BCT was more than sufficient for him to cover whatever expenses Moreno had incurred on his behalf, but…where _was_ he going?

_Doesn’t matter. Anywhere but here._

He’d come up with something. He had nothing but time!

Punching his arm, Moreno grinned. “Ain’t no thing, Gallagher. I survive the towelheads, you can buy me an eight ball or some shit.”

“Yeah, you’ll probably need it,” Ian allowed, unable to suppress a chuckle. At least he was consistent: illegally smuggling a wanted recruit off base, and he was _still_ thinking about getting high.

“Damn straight. Dumb bastards. Like I gotta be sober to shoot some fucker in the face, right?”

“Maybe if you don’t want it to be one of your own guys.”

Moreno flipped him the bird, and Ian’s smile slipped a bit at the sound of the SUV’s ignition.

“Watch your back out there,” warned Moreno, shaking his hand with an oddly sober expression. “They probably already sicced the MPs on your dumb ass.”

Yeah, they probably had, although Ian masked his amusement at the notion of how hysterical their reaction would be when they realized that he wasn’t the person whose name he’d enlisted under. Honestly, that was their own fault. How did the _army_ not have better methods of ensuring that their recruits’ identities were on the level? How had they not seen through his façade on a million occasions since he’d arrived? For an institution that prided itself on its rigid structure and organization, this place was a fucking shitshow. The only _real_ structure they had was for telling everyone what to do. Ian would teach them a lesson, and it would serve them right. They could keep the empty ROTC duffel they’d locked up at the start of BCT and his personnel file and his stupid test scores. Fuck them. He didn’t need them. That shit didn’t mean anything, nor would it help them to ascertain who he really was when he was gone.

Private Lip Gallagher would become a ghost and a legend.

_Ian_ Gallagher was a nonentity. He wasn’t worth a damn to them, and MPs wouldn’t expend their resources searching for a nobody.

There was freedom in being nobody. There was power in being nobody.

And Ian _loved_ it.

Moreno was already up to his neck in this shit, however, so he opted to play those cards close to his chest and merely offered, “You too. And thanks for this.”

The guy that replied, “You got it, brother,” was no different from who he’d been in December. The douchebag who hustled to the barracks as Ian settled into the backseat of the SUV hadn’t fundamentally changed in the weeks that Donovan had spent attempting to dismantle everything that made them unique individuals. That fellow piece of ghetto trash remained an uncomfortable likeness of something Ian had lost, not what he was willingly leaving behind tonight.

Even so, Ian breathed a sigh of relief, turning in his seat to watch him vanish unimpeded into the safety of the place Ian would no longer call his home away from home. Nothing he’d done could have saved Mickey after the latter had pried Terry off of him in their living room—nothing. But Ian wasn’t helpless anymore. Ian wasn’t _weak_ anymore. He wasn’t ruining Moreno’s life as reimbursement for his aid.

He was _better_.

He was _so much better_.

***

At 0500, the day began at Fort Leonard Wood. The barracks would be bustling with activity as the recruits dressed in their PT gear and steeled themselves for hours of relentless hell. Grunts and groans would replace coherent conversation, each budding soldier too tired to care about what anybody else had to say, at least until they were done with breakfast. They would stand at attention and salute Donovan when he entered, impatient for him to complete his daily inspection before ordering them out into the cold. If yesterday was a good day, they’d march to the gymnasium; if they’d pissed him off, it would be a chilly morning indeed.

At five o'clock, the day began for Ian. Although the bench he had napped on hadn’t been what he’d call comfortable, it nevertheless outshone the alternative. His ears weren’t ringing with Donovan’s voice. There wasn’t a line of guys waiting for him to finish at the urinal. Best of all, the clock was counting down to absolutely _nothing_. No orders or rules or schedules or missions or classes or paperwork or yelling. Just peace and quiet.

Free. Ian was _free_.

Free to stroll along the edge of the curb at the bus station because he _wanted_ to, not because they had to practice their balance. Free to chortle at himself for tripping into the road, the harsh rebukes miles behind him. Free to lie down for half an hour and then get up and then lie down again because Hampton wasn’t around to whine about it keeping him awake at night. Free to flash his phone and the one-way ticket Ian had bought online with a flourish as he boarded his bus promptly at five o'clock.

God, he’d missed this—going wherever and doing whatever he pleased. It was _invigorating_. Like running from security with Lip or chasing Mickey through familiar alleys when he hadn’t yet transformed into the person Ian had to walk away from, the thrill of witnessing his world expanding before his very eyes got his blood pumping faster and faster. Everything was so amazing out here, far from the green and grey nightmare that shrank further into the distance as the bus picked up speed. Dawn was a couple hours off, but the stars? They were fucking beautiful! If he’d believed they were spectacular when he first arrived, that was nothing compared to how they zoomed past the window like a million tiny comets once they traveled through Waynesville into the early morning darkness. The fields and low hills that had captured his attention going the opposite direction were no less entrancing on his second viewing, indigo masses converting the scenery from a barren Missouri wasteland into a churning ocean in the middle of a storm. He could feel the vibrations in his muscles, in his veins, in his bones. A storm of epic proportions—a _life-changing_ storm that didn’t seem to bother the handful of people that boarded in Rolla while its warm summer winds and heady electricity conjured prickling goosebumps beneath his sleeves.

It was all gravy from here. He could _tell_. What could go wrong?

Ian had his stuff. His clothes, his shoes, two or three personal effects he’d brought with him—Moreno ensured that he didn’t leave anything on base to be disposed of. Why Ian ever considered that it might be a bad idea to store them in his regulation duffel rather than locked in a basement somewhere as though he were going to prison was beyond him. Most of his garments were the same hand-me-downs that Lip had worn for years, but he’d grudgingly accepted that that was simply how life worked in lieu of any other options. It was _his_ shit now and far warmer than the crap they’d been given, origins be damned.

Ian had _money_ , too, so he could always get new things. Yeah, that would be pretty great. As soon as they returned to some semblance of civilization and he had a chance to go shopping, he’d make that one of his highest priorities. Carl was slowly but surely growing taller, so Ian wasn’t squandering anything. He’d buy a few outfits for himself and guarantee that his old clothing passed down the line, as was the natural order when you were a Gallagher.

Oh! There were other purchases he had been meaning to make: he’d promised Liam that he would mail postcards! Well, almost three hours in St. Louis waiting for his bus transfer was more than enough time to find something special. And if Ian couldn’t decide between the five styles they had on a rack at the station and ended up buying them all, so what? He was good for it. The plastic card in his wallet was a gateway that had officially been unlocked this morning. All that money was sitting in his bank account gathering dust while he used their meager advances on minor shit—journals and fresh socks when he wore holes in the ones he’d been issued during Reception Battalion. That was a real waste. Sure, it would be a dumb move to blow every single cent in one place as Frank was wont to do, but what good was having money on hand if he didn’t spend a little every now and again? He wasn’t hurting for cash, nor was he depriving his family of food or utilities as they slogged through what remained of the winter months by keeping a small portion of it for himself. Liam’s postcards, a couple of shot glasses for Fiona and Lip, a magnet for Debbie, and a pocketknife for Carl were a drop in the bucket. Ian could even comfortably afford to throw in a Red Bull and a handful of Kind Bars to tide him over on the rest of the trip to Chicago.

It wasn’t until the bus stopped in Decatur that Ian was struck with the sudden realization that…he didn’t know _what_ the hell happened upon arriving in Chicago. The thought hadn’t occurred to him when he’d bought a ticket to the first place he could think of. He had the world at his fingertips, but…where else was he supposed to go? The whole point of leaving for the army was that _they_ would decide that, and the whole point of leaving the army was that they made pretty messed up decisions. This was already as far outside the city as he’d ever been, with the exception of their occasional ROTC retreats, so nowhere else had come to mind. Of course, he’d return to Chicago. Of course, he’d go home.

Ian unintentionally crumpled the empty can he was still holding, the sound drowned out by the noisy diesel engine and creaking seats. Leaving Waynesville, the bus had been fairly empty: nobody in their right mind would suffer _that_ long a commute on a Thursday morning. Now that they were back in Illinois, it was packed with passengers who had filled in the spaces around where he sat in the middle row. There were older couples, presumably heading into the city for the weekend to visit family or whatever; two kids who looked like they couldn’t be much older than Debbie were whispering to each other a few seats ahead of him, filthy backpacks piled high with their belongings clogging the aisle despite the driver’s warnings to move them. Somebody must have grabbed McDonald’s prior to catching the bus since Ian could smell the greasy, almost chemical scent of a Big Mac and fries wafting through the recycled air, the sudden craving for White Castle hitting him _hard_. He heard coughs and sneezes, shushing and muffled music, fingernails tapping against glass phone screens and pages being flipped in a book. People from all walks of life surrounded him, ignoring his presence as thoroughly as he’d been attempting to ignore theirs—and he was positive that each and every one of them had a set destination.

Ian? He hadn’t gotten further than merely… _Chicago_. That was all well and good when his foremost goal was to get as far away from the base as possible just in case the MPs staked out major transportation terminals to locate him (shit, he hadn’t thought about _that_ this morning either), but what now? Four hours and five stops from here, he’d be in the city with two options on the table: go home, or don’t go home.

Huffing a humorless chuckle, Ian shook his head and glowered at the unchanging fields and scrubby brush beside the highway. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go back to the South Side, the house, and his family. If he did, it would be with his tail between his legs. None of his accomplishments would matter. It wouldn’t mean a damn thing that he had nearly completed BCT and was doing great on his own. They’d see him as a failure, plain and simple.

He could hear Fiona already. Lecturing him. Berating him for going anywhere when he was supposed to graduate from high school and work a meaningless, dead-end job until he croaked, be it natural or brought about by cigarettes and alcohol and whatever else dulled the pain of amounting to exactly what the neighborhood expected of Gallaghers— _nothing_.

Lip would be fucking insufferable. After he was done yelling at Ian for enlisting at all, he’d offer a conciliatory joint and pretend that he wasn’t attempting to sneak in an _I told you so_ or five. Then he’d head off to college and regale his fancy, smartass friends with the tale of Ian’s inadequacy.

Obviously, Debbie would give him all kinds of shit, though it might take a few days for the indignation to kick in. Maybe. Or perhaps she’d gotten used to his absence and wouldn’t care in the slightest. That was a possibility. So was Carl barely noticing that he was gone.

He may as well have stayed right where he was. Without a lofty rank and decorated uniform, his entire plan to return different from when he’d left didn’t amount to fuck all.

_No_ , Ian contradicted himself, firm as the hand that crushed his can until it was a pancake in his lap. _That’s fucking bullshit._

He _was_ different. He was _better_.

For over two months, Ian had been in charge of his own life—his own _destiny_ —and when it didn’t work out, it was because _he_ decided that it wouldn’t. The army hadn’t chased him away. For once, he’d taken the bull by the horns and said enough was enough. It was _his_ choice to flip them off and leave. Ian had proven to everyone that he could be the best soldier they had if that was what he desired, and he was proving to them that he didn’t need the army now.

Time to convince his family. He wasn’t going home until he could show them indisputable proof that he’d done it: he’d figured life out all on his own, and no setbacks would thwart him.

He didn’t need _anybody_.

First things first. Ian had to get his shit in order. He had to compartmentalize. His family wasn’t his top priority.

Triage.

His most pressing concerns were shelter and food. What he’d earned during basic would sustain him for a while, but the money was finite. It _would_ run out, and quickly if he wasn’t careful how much he spent. As tempting as it sounded to find a nice hotel, wash the smell of the barracks out of his pores, and enjoy himself for a couple of days, he’d regret it all too soon. Rationing what he had was imperative so he could solidify his next move. Once he was settled with his necessities provided for, he could consider buying a few things for himself, like those clothes that hadn’t been worn by anyone except whoever tried them on at the store. The key was settling somewhere affordable, dirt cheap, or free—but not _Frank_ free. Ian wasn’t a deadbeat sack of shit. He’d pay his way to the couch he was crashing on. The only question was whose couch that would be.

Accidentally elbowing the elderly man sitting beside him, Ian pulled his cell phone from his pocket and apologized under his breath. The guy leveled him with a mildly annoyed frown but nodded before returning to his book, so Ian hoped the next few hours wouldn’t be any more uncomfortable than the last three since he’d boarded. …His polo shirt was disturbingly similar to the brightly patterned seats that didn’t appear to have been updated since the late eighties. Why would anybody wear that? Even old people had to have _some_ taste in clothes, right?

_Focus._

He blinked and shook off his errant musings. Triage.

Ian’s contact list had always been sparse, though the inconvenience that posed was only evident when he scrolled through it three times as if that would cause more names to magically populate. Most of them were his family, which left him with exceedingly limited alternatives to choose from. Jesus. This was tougher than he’d anticipated.

Even worse was that his thumb instinctively, _stupidly_ hovered over Mandy’s number for a beat too long. What the fuck was he thinking? He couldn’t ask Mandy to let him stay over for an hour let alone _days_. The Milkovich house was off limits for plenty of reasons, not least of which that he’d sworn never to walk through that door again. Ian had no interest in it or any of its phantoms. He wasn’t going backwards. Forward. He was moving _forward_. Moving on. He’d done that. He was going to keep doing it. No Mandy. She couldn’t help him—fuck that, he didn’t need her help anyway. He didn’t need anybody. Just a roof. Preferably a roof that wasn’t harboring the most macabre circus on the South Side.

Linda was an equally impossible prospect, and Ian had to roll his eyes. Why hadn’t he deleted her contact information yet? Like Mandy’s house, he had no intention of ever returning to the Kash and Grab. He was destined for bigger, better things than stocking shelves and compensating hobos for their pilfered recycling for the rest of his life. Besides, Linda would sooner chew his ear off for not giving her two weeks’ notice—or _any_ notice—that he was quitting than offer him a place to stay.

It was cool. He was a Gallagher. Gallaghers weren’t after pity.

He fucking deleted that shit faster than Lip could outrun the cops.

With his family and Mandy stricken from the list, what remained were two names that he hadn’t imagined calling upon for a favor in a thousand years, and neither of them were optimal. There was no telling who would answer if he texted Monica: the version that wanted to be the perfect mother, or the version that was about to drop some acid and run off to Kansas. The latter sounded kind of fun; the former, obnoxious as fuck. She so seldom hovered at a happy medium that Ian didn’t bother hoping for it.

Then there was Ned, who had thankfully maintained radio silence ever since he’d stitched Mickey’s ass together on Ian’s kitchen counter. Something about his ill-conceived heist being partially responsible for Ian’s entire family getting divided and shipped around half the city must have been more effective at communicating his disinterest than Ian had managed on his own. His was another number that Ian really should have deleted a long time ago, but in hindsight, he was sort of glad that he didn’t.

Monica wasn’t reliable. That was a proven, undeniable fact. Lip had said that they could formulate their own scientific law surrounding her unpredictability once. If he saw Ian hesitate at the sight of her name, frowning at his screen, Lip would never let him live it down. In their nursing home, decrepit and waiting to die, he’d _still_ be up Ian’s ass about that _and_ Ian not telling him that he had saved her number during her last maternal spree. That wasn’t even counting the likelihood that Monica probably didn’t have anywhere for him to go. She was what Frank would call a free spirit and Fiona would call flaky: she went wherever the fuck she wanted and did whatever the fuck she wanted without a care for anybody else, including her own family. In the event that she _was_ holed up somewhere that he could temporarily share, he wasn’t at all confident that she wouldn’t disappear without a trace whenever it suited her, and he’d be left holding the bag when her landlord came looking for the rent money. She’d already done it to them on more occasions than he could count.

Ned could be an asshole, but he was a reliable asshole. Ned could be pushy, but he was stable. Mostly. His wife kicking him out of the house was a trivial stumbling block for someone in his position. He had to be on his feet by now, loaded and living the good life. He had to be settled enough that he wouldn’t uproot Ian’s plans before they came to fruition. That didn’t sound too bad.

However, right as he was about to open a text, he froze. What if Ned expected shit in exchange or simply because they had history? What if he assumed that Ian was testing the waters, probing to see whether the attraction that had kept Ned pestering him for more was alive and well? Opening that door might send signals Ian wasn’t trying to broadcast.

…Did it matter, though? They’d fooled around a lot as it was. If Ian got sick of his hand again, then it wasn’t the end of the world to give Ned what he wanted. That was how mutual arrangements worked.

_“What’s that make you, huh? A fucking kept boy, at best.”_

A low, rumbling flame abruptly heated Ian’s insides to a simmer. It wasn’t like that. Lip didn’t understand. It wasn’t like that at all.

_“Fake Muslim cheats on white fundamentalist wife with gutless gay boy.”_

He wasn’t _gutless_. He wasn’t a _kept boy_.

He was breathing hard. His fingers were a vise around his knee.

He wasn’t _gutless_. He wasn’t a _kept boy_.

The passenger next to him was staring. Why was he staring? Fuck that guy. Shouldn’t he have been coffin shopping instead of butting into Ian’s personal space?

He wasn’t _gutless_. He wasn’t a _kept boy_.

It was too much. He was sweating and his leg was bouncing and everyone on the bus was laughing at him. They needed to mind their fucking business.

He wasn’t _gutless_. He wasn’t a _kept boy_.

The scrutiny was unbearable, and Ian turned jerkily towards the window, glaring at his own reflection. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t he wasn’t he _wasn’t_.

He wasn’t _gutless_. He wasn’t a _kept boy_.

Ian knew what he was doing: _surviving_. That was what they always did. They stole and they lied and they cheated because that was what you did to survive. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. He wasn’t a dumb kid who had no clue what the real world was like. The real world had introduced itself by slapping him in the face and, when he endeavored to forget who it was, it returned to fuck him over some more just so they were clear on who the boss was.

_“You can’t do shit on your own.”_

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

He’d turned the world on its head and told it to fuck off. _Ian_ was in charge now. _Ian_ told the real world how shit was going to go, and the real world was going to listen up.

Gone was the gutless Ian whose heart had broken because he was too big an idiot to accept the simple truths that Terry Milkovich had dished out. Gone was the Ian whose stupidity had nearly made him Mickey’s kept boy. Gone was the Ian who _couldn’t do shit on his own_.

The Ian watching him from the glass was strong. That Ian was powerful, an unstoppable force that outmatched the army by a mile. The storm wasn’t inside him— _he_ was the storm. Everyone else would have to batten down the hatches, because the hand of God was all that could stop him now.

He wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t let anyone pressure or coerce him. He wouldn’t tolerate anybody looking down on him.

He didn’t need anybody. He’d do it on his own. All on his own.

His reflection nodded, a smirk on its lips.

Lip would see. Ian was going to make him fucking proud that Ian was his brother. He was going to show him—he was going to show _everybody_.

Confidently, Ian opened a text to _Dr. L_. That was a fine start. Ned already owed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Apologies for the delay in this chapter over the holidays. I hope that you enjoyed it and very much look forward to sharing the next phase of Ian's journey with you!


	10. Part 2.2: Different

“I have to say, it was a surprise to hear from you. What’s it been—six months? Seven?”

Ian shrugged, the leather seat creaking as his weight shifted. “I guess. Maybe a little longer.”

“That was the day with the”—Ned’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and after a brief pause, he snapped his fingers—“with the social worker, right?”

“You remember that?”

He shot Ian his usual, disarming smirk. “Do I remember performing surgery in a kitchen while my patient snorted cocaine to anesthetize himself? I’d call that one _unforgettable_.”

An involuntary grin spread across Ian’s face, and he turned to stare out the window at the rush hour traffic that clogged city streets he hadn’t believed he’d miss quite so thoroughly. That may have been what cracked the box stowed in the darkest corner of his brain wide open to bring one particular demon rushing to the fore: familiar sights and sounds and smells that had accosted him the instant he stepped off the bus and spotted Ned waiting for him nearby like he promised he would be. What he referred to wasn’t a fond memory for Ian, but regardless of what happened in the aftermath, there was no denying that it hadn’t been a bad day. Attempting to forget didn’t dispel its fickle magic or the tenacity with which it refused to be disregarded. Effortlessly, his nose conjured the soothing scent of stale cigarette smoke sewn into a worn tank top, and he could feel the light puff of air that had caressed his lips followed by warm skin he’d never been granted access to before. His racing heart, the dried-out vinyl steering wheel beneath his limp fingers, bursts of static that drove every coherent thought from his head, a silent _fuck off_ to warn him against getting sappy about it even though it was already too late for that—the recollection was as fresh in his mind as the ensuing solitude where he’d wondered if he was dreaming only to ecstatically realize that he was very, _very_ much awake. Who would have imagined that one remark was all it took?

_Fuck. Go away._

“Yeah,” he murmured, swallowing a surge of bitterness at how one remark was also enough to destroy it. “Unforgettable.”

The great thing about Ned was that he never asked invasive questions, the sole exception being his first minor misstep the night they met. That was what made him a perfect distraction: unlike Lip or occasionally Fiona, he didn’t care what was on Ian’s mind unless Ian decided to share, and those instances were few and far between. Neither of them was obligated to explain themselves for anything or spoke at length about what was going on in their lives, and they _liked_ it that way. With Ned, shit was simple, uncomplicated by traitorous emotions that had twice fooled Ian into assuming—

_God, no._

It was neither here nor there. The box was shut tight again. They were just blots on his past, mere shadows barely illuminated by Ned’s taillights. Nothing changed that, whether Ian went to Missouri or returned to Chicago or was shipped halfway around the goddamn world. He knew where he stood with Ned and always had. Their relationship had never been that deep, which was precisely why it worked so well. The end.

As such, Ian was infinitely grateful when he changed the subject with a pointed nod at Ian’s duffel in the back seat. “Looks like you’ve been around since then.”

It didn’t escape his notice that Ned tactfully refrained from commenting on the _P_ that should have been an _I_.

Simple, indeed.

“Yeah, I…was on…a trip,” Ian haltingly blurted out. Not his smoothest delivery by far, but besides a small crease between his eyebrows, Ned didn’t react. True to form, he wouldn’t ask, and Ian wouldn’t tell. …Wasn’t _that_ ironic as fuck?

“A trip?”

Nodding, Ian hastily stitched together a little truth and a lot of lies. All he’d told Ned on the phone was that he needed a place to crash and to pick him up at the Greyhound station on North Cumberland. They hadn’t addressed why, nor had Ian offered a reason. Ned never anticipated any in the past: their study sessions were study sessions, drinks were drinks, and fucking was fucking. Again, _simple_.

“My aunt died a few months back and left us some money. I thought it would be good to get out of Chicago, you know? Do some traveling. See new places.”

“That’s certainly a good use for your inheritance.” Ned peered over at him, his frown slightly more pronounced. “What about school? ROTC? Are they letting you make up what you missed?”

Ian smiled. Finally, a question he could answer truthfully!

“Nah, gave up on that.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not really for me.”

He didn’t respond right away, letting Ian’s carefree admission settle in the air between them for a minute before deliberately replying, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

That was nice. Ian wasn’t.

Well… Okay, maybe that wasn’t _completely_ true. It was kind of like finding out that Santa mistakenly overlooked their house every year because he wasn’t real or the first time Fiona sat them down and told them that Monica wasn’t coming home. Overall, it was for the best, but there was a lump in your throat and a hole in your chest regardless. Something irreplaceable was taken from you, and there was nothing you could do to get it back.

Joining the military had been Ian’s dream for as long as he could remember. For years, the G.I. Joe action figure that Frank and Monica had indulged him in buying was his most prized possession. He’d carried it everywhere he went, and Lip had searched half the city for it when Ian stupidly left it on the L—it was _that_ important. All he’d hoped for, all he’d aspired to, all he’d cared about was growing up to be the human embodiment of that toy: strong, steadfast, and courageous under fire. There was a picture of him wearing army camouflage as a kid on their mantelpiece at home, with his curly mop of red hair and too-big teeth and freckle-spattered cheeks. Where Carl played with guns for the sake of playing with guns, Ian ran around the backyard pretending to snipe enemy insurgents and counted down the days until he was officially old enough to sign up for ROTC on a calendar in his nightstand drawer. Whether it was the marines or the army or the navy or whoever else would accept him, all Ian had ever wanted was to serve.

That dream was Santa, though. That dream was the front door never opening and no more Monica prancing around the house to fulfill her outsized domestic ambitions, playing music in the middle of the night, or fighting with Frank. Ian had bought into the illusion of structure, yet he’d learned that it was smoke and mirrors. They played a good game. They got their foot in the door and convinced him that he would mean something if he lived by their rules and exemplified the Army Values. But that didn’t erase the fact that they were Santa and Monica: ephemeral entities that weren’t what they seemed at first glance and couldn’t be reclaimed once they were gone. There was no going back.

Ian would miss the army about as much as he missed believing in Santa or waiting for Monica to come home—not at all. Nevertheless, it hurt a bit to let go of the one dream that had guided his life until now.

But who cared about that? He’d get over it. The army hadn’t earned his grief. There were still plenty of dreams to be pursued! The roads laid before him were endless, stretching from here to infinity beyond the narrow scope of the professions he’d listed in the journal at the bottom of his duffel. So what if the army was more of a pipe dream than a real dream? There were countless others where that came from, and the hours he’d spent on the bus to get here left him even thirstier to explore each and every one. The prospect made his skin prickle, and he clenched his fists in his lap so that his hands would stop trembling with energetic excitement.

It began today, in the passenger seat of Ned’s new BMW with the Chicago skyline towering over them, the rapidly darkening clouds reflecting the lights that replaced Missouri’s stars. What had he been thinking, fucking off to the middle of nowhere like that? That was all it had to offer— _nothing_. Grass and dirt. Mud and snow. Pretty stars. Cows. (The stench of them when the wind blew just right… Yeah, it would be a while before he forgot how potent that could be.)

Chicago, by contrast, was the ultimate high. Ian drank it in and still didn’t absorb half of the spectacle that rolled out the red carpet in front of Ned’s car. Streetlights and neon signs mingled on the pavement, transforming it into a bright, pulsating rainbow boulevard. Happy hour had ended, and the clubs were opening their doors to lines of stressed-out businesspeople seeking relief as they neared the final day of the work week. Above the low hum of the heat and radio, there were sirens in the distance and innumerable voices reminding him what it meant to be a part of civilization. Restaurants he couldn’t afford to patronize on his BCT income lined the road; hotels like he’d once visited with Ned waved down at him. The car zoomed underneath the L and rolled to a stop a moment later in congested evening traffic. And everywhere— _everywhere_ —there was motion action laughing talking dancing running celebrating _life_.

How had he ever considered that he might survive without this? How had he ever convinced himself that the heartbeat of the city wasn’t the same as his, thumping in tandem? Perhaps that was the reason why he could never _really_ settle at basic: he was missing an integral piece of himself, something he’d accidentally left behind with the refuse after mistaking it for yet more garbage. His nicotine-free, alcohol-deprived, weed-craving body had to make up the difference. Ian hadn’t slept because the city didn’t sleep; he was wired because his soul yearned for the electricity that thrummed through Chicago and connected its residents in an interminable circuit. Removing himself from the equation had torn a hole in his soul that was rapidly filling in again now that he was where he belonged. It made total sense. It fit. It explained _everything_.

He’d learned his lesson, and Ian didn’t intend to forget it anytime soon. 

As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, Ned casually tapped his fingers against the gearshift and asked, “So, what’s next for you?” 

_That_ was the million-dollar question. More specifically, it was the question Ian had been contemplating for a few hours while the bus drew closer to the city.

“Uh, I don’t know yet,” he replied, aiming for honesty. There was no shame in being between dreams. Hey, maybe Ned would have ideas on where he could start looking for his new destiny! “Kinda figured I’d take some time, explore my options and all that. Find myself. Gotta be something out there I’m good at.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of things you’re _good at_ , Ian.”

Frowning suspiciously, he glanced sidelong at Ned and was surprised to see that the suggestive undertones he’d expected were conspicuously absent. As far as he could tell, Ned’s assessment was serious and genuine, which…was weird. Or it wasn’t. The guy _had_ bought him a super expensive GPS wrist unit for ROTC and spent forever helping him with math homework that computed about as much in hindsight as it had in the moment. Somewhere along the line, he must have concluded that Ian was worth more than stocking shelves. That was great. Ian had earned at least one vote of confidence.

_…Nope. Still weird._

Other than an awkward jerk of his head, Ian couldn’t come up with a decent response and ultimately opted to brush off the compliment. Now wasn’t the time to discuss his talents or the opportunities available to him anyway.

“You sure you’re cool with me crashing at your place?” he pivoted to less discomfiting terrain instead.

“You sure _you’re_ cool with my boyfriend being there?” Ned countered, although he didn’t seem too worried about the answer when he diverted his attention from the red lights ahead of them to meet his gaze. The screeching brakes were all in Ian’s brain, then.

“You’ve got a boyfriend?”

Tilting his head from side to side, Ned’s eyes slid back to the road as the traffic started moving. “Well, it’s nothing serious, but we have a good time. Like you and I used to.”

_Used to_. So, Ian wouldn’t have to put out in exchange for a roof over his head and food in his stomach. That was good to hear, not that he’d really thought that was Ned’s bag. He wheedled and played the pity card like a pro, but he wasn’t manipulative. He never took advantage of Ian, and he had no reason to start now, especially if there was someone else in the picture.

Jimmy probably shit a few bricks when he found out.

“Congrats,” Ian replied, equal parts relieved and amused, “and thanks for letting me stay. It won’t be for long, and I can pay rent or wha—”

Ned waved a hand to silence him. “Really, it’s no bother. Take however long you need, and don’t worry about the money. I’ve got everything covered.”

A sudden spark of that Gallagher spirit mixed with Lip’s voice whispering _kept boy_ in his ear, and Ian peevishly argued, “I can pay my own way.”

“I know you can. And if you end up staying with us longer than anticipated, we’ll discuss room and board. All right?”

No, it wasn’t _all right_. It made him feel like fucking Frank, leeching off somebody rather than repaying their courtesy in kind. However, he could grudgingly read between the lines. If Ian didn’t pay rent, then he could save more of the money he had and anything he earned once he found a job. He’d have to rely on Ned for a while, but he’d be in better shape when he was ready to strike out on his own. Nothing owed, nothing bargained. It was a favor—a sincere, authentic favor with no strings attached.

If only it didn’t feel so much like _charity_.

Ian muttered his thanks and watched the crowds ambling along the sidewalk. How it felt didn’t matter. What it _was_ mattered, and the benefits he’d reap by agreeing to Ned’s terms would get him on his feet much quicker than the alternative. And Ned owed him. He just had to remember that: _Ned_ owed _him_.

“Did your boyfriend not have any room at his place for you to stay?”

Ah. There were those squealing tires again.

The bitterness and resentment he had been reasoning into submission fled his mind, leaving a startlingly cold, jagged emptiness in their wake that sent a chill down Ian’s spine. The heated seats were blocks of ice, and he stiffened, fists clenched for an entirely different reason than before.

“What?”

“Your boyfriend? I just assumed you would have stayed with him before texting me.”

There was movement in his periphery, but Ian couldn’t tear his eyes from the windshield if he tried. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. Not with Ned. Not with anybody. But then, it wasn’t even a conversation at all, was it?

The box was closed. He double checked. It was _closed_.

“We’re not together anymore,” was Ian’s carefully cheerful, easy response. Because they weren’t. Because they never had been.

Yeah. Easy.

“No?”

The quiet, droning voice from the radio news broadcast was uninterrupted as it filled the car, and Ian was tempted to let the subject die there. It wasn’t any of Ned’s business, right? He didn’t get to ask those questions. Mickey was just another South Side kid to him, and if he hadn’t beaten the shit out of Ned for taking Ian to get drinks that one time, Ned wouldn’t care who he was or what happened to him. It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his _right_ to ask.

But the words spilled past Ian’s lips faster than he could grasp what he was saying: “Kinda hard to have a relationship with a married guy.”

Silence.

The radio continued, undeterred and unaware of the renewed uneasiness that made the hair on Ian’s neck stand up.

If Ned recognized the parallel to what he’d pulled the night they met, he didn’t mention it. He merely sounded confused and a bit blindsided when he finally replied, “Married? He looked a little… _young_ for that.”

Ian narrowly resisted the immediate, bafflingly insistent urge to laugh. That wasn’t the word Ned was originally going to use. He didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell. What he’d been going for likely erred closer to _thuggish_. Or violent. Angry. Unpredictable. Cowardly. A liar.

Maybe not that one. Ian’s mistaken interpretation of what they were to each other didn’t make him a liar. It made him an asshole.

An asshole who wasn’t here to defend himself or his honor or his pride, so it absolutely wasn’t Ian’s job to do it for him. Ian always fucked that up, which explained why Mickey never wanted him to. Kash shot him, and Ian did nothing; Frank found out about them, and Ian did nothing. Terry…

Whatever. It wasn’t his place to speak up for Mickey any more than it was Ned’s to bring him into the discussion to begin with. If Mickey wanted to knock Ned’s teeth out for what he insinuated, then he would be here. If he wanted Ian to do it, then he would be here.

If he wanted _Ian_ , then he _would be here_.

But he wasn’t and he didn’t and either he never had or he was too chicken to admit it, so fuck him. And fuck Ian for giving a shit.

Then. Not now. Ian didn’t give a shit _now_.

He was _free_.

None of that was for Ned’s ears, though, not that Ian could explain what had happened or why Mickey had gotten married to someone like him. Hailing from a world where the most extreme disappointment he’d ever suffered was sacrificing an expensive bottle of wine, would Ned understand that? Would he let Ian stay in the condo he’d talked about in his texts if he knew what Ian had done—or what he _hadn’t_ done? Would he care either way?

Not a chance. They had history, but not _that_ much history. And Ian didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t owe anybody anything.

He was _free_.

As was so often the case lately, it was best to keep things simple: with the army so they didn’t find out who he _wasn’t_ , with Key’onna so he wouldn’t forget the details of his own fabricated story, with Moreno so he didn’t get caught with more information than would do him any good, with Ned so he didn’t pose questions that Ian couldn’t possibly begin to answer.

And Ian didn’t even have to lie this time.

“Yeah, well. I guess when you know, you know.”

Mickey had known that Ian couldn’t be his side piece. He’d been well aware that it wasn’t as easy as retreating to the casual fucking they’d been doing before his last stint in juvie, at least not for Ian. Although he’d ignored the implications that day in his room and walked back everything that made sense in that moldy old shithole where he’d gotten married, he had to have known that a fissure had opened that could only be closed if he _didn’t do it_.

But he did it anyway. He made his choice, and Ian had made his.

When they knew, they knew. And they both knew it was fucking over.

So was the conversation. Ned wisely kept his mouth shut, and the rest of the ride passed in merciful silence.

***

When Ned informed him that he had a condo, Ian wasn’t sure what to picture. According to Lip, _condo_ was a fancy word that realtors substituted for _apartment_ to justify charging people higher prices for living there, and since Ned had been monetarily wiped out the last time they spoke, he’d hardly visualized a high-rise in a part of the city that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the back of the yards. The contrast was so stark, as a matter of fact, that he couldn’t bottle up the incredulous laugh that escaped him as they pulled into the underground parking garage and a spot with Ned’s name on it—literally. There was a placard on the concrete support in front of the space, bolted into the wall and everything.

“Whoa…” Ian breathed, emerging from the car and securing his duffel over his shoulder. “Guess you’re not broke anymore, huh?”

Blasé as ever, Ned smiled. “The inside could use a bit of work, but it’s not bad.”

It took every ounce of willpower and discipline the army had instilled in him for Ian’s echoed, “Not bad?” to sound like mildly puzzled acknowledgement rather than a scoff.

“Well, it would be nice to have something with a bit more room to entertain,” Ned elaborated obliviously. “I can’t really complain, though. Once my _ex_ -wife and I sold off our assets and the divorce lawyers were done scavenging their share, it left me with enough to live comfortably if not… _ideally_.”

“Right…”

Comfortably? Selling their giant-ass mansion of a house and probably a bunch of the gauche, lavish shit they hoarded inside it left him with _enough to live comfortably_. Jesus, talk about an entirely different world. To a Gallagher, _comfortable_ was having a bed that didn’t poke them with broken springs at three in the morning if they rolled over or being able to afford brand-name cereal instead of the imitation stuff. That wasn’t to say that he was altogether shocked at Ned viewing what was undoubtedly a pretty swanky condo as beneath him, of course. The hotels they’d stayed in were so pricey that Ian’s entire bank account could _possibly_ get him one night without food, and he was positive that Ned hadn’t spent anywhere near as much on their evenings together as he could have, so this was likely a few steps below what he was accustomed to.

…But _comfortably_?

Ned motioned for Ian to follow and led him towards the elevators at the other end of the garage. “Come on, I’ll show you upstairs. I’ll have a key made tomorrow so you can come and go as you please. Just try not to come in too late. Bruce is up early for work, and I’m on call with morning rotations this week.”

Ian nodded, though he doubted that would be an issue. Where else could he go? His limited means and the length of time he needed to stretch them ruled out any fun he might have had. Honestly, he didn’t see himself leaving Ned’s condo much for the foreseeable future. He had to find work. He had to settle on a place to live. He had to construct a plan. He had to structure his future. There was so much! He didn’t have room in his busy schedule for superfluous shit like _fun_.

If he had to be locked up anywhere while he figured it all out, he supposed he could have done a lot worse than the lap of luxury. _Comfortable_ was certainly an apt description for what greeted them when they stepped out of the elevator into a quiet, cozy corridor on the ground floor. So was _sophisticated_ , _pretentious_ , and perhaps _overpriced_.

The fresh, crisp aroma of new carpet was heavy in the air and washed over them as they walked. A soft, warm yellow glow emanated from mini chandeliers lining the ceiling at intervals, which was a major departure from the harsh white, fluorescent lights that had burned his eyes first thing every morning in the barracks. Ned turned right at an ornately patterned bench that seemed to be there for decoration instead of function, the cushions firm and unwrinkled without someone’s ass to stretch them out. The overall effect was akin to those gentrified remodels where anything too plain had to be dressed up and attributed to a wealthy politician that had allegedly lived in the area so long ago that nobody could verify who they were should they undertake the burden of arduous research. (They wouldn’t. Prospective buyers and eager sellers didn’t want to know that crap, just profit off it.) Even the walls, which would have been fine with some sanding and a coat of paint, were made to look chic with carved wood paneling on the bottom, drywall up top, and boring paintings of random landscapes no one who spent their whole life in Chicago could hope to see anywhere but on television.

_Yeah. Real fixer-upper_ , Ian mocked internally while Ned unlocked the door at the end of the corridor and they entered unit number seven.

Shit, what he wouldn’t have given to get Lip in here. Neither of them were experts on interior design, yet Ian was confident that if Lip got a load of this place, he’d gather enough material to write an entire treatise on rich people and their lack of anything remotely approaching sense.

“Make yourself at home,” Ned welcomed him, striding through the open-concept condo as though the living room alone wasn’t worth more than multiple houses on Ian’s block. That terrifying notion rendered him too nervous to set his duffel on the dark hardwood floor in case it nicked the finish, so he balanced it on the toe of his shoe, absorbing the elegance and utter _waste_ that surrounded him in amazement.

The enormous painting that spanned the wall behind him wasn’t just hideous—it was _horrifying_. An amalgamation of burnt orange and black, it looked like one of the war images he remembered from history class in heinous, disturbing color. The bust on the foyer table was tasteless and out of place compared to the otherwise contemporary style of the apartment, whose furniture clashed in a manner that Ian guessed was designed to be fashionable, not messy like the mismatched blankets and pillows that had inhabited their living room at home since before he was born. There was a white chair and a brown one, the former sporting a stupid cheetah-print pillow and the latter studded with gold metal. Neither complemented the glass table in front of the fireplace, which was vastly different from the barstools at the granite countertop adjacent to a set of spotless stainless-steel appliances.

So much for Ned’s argument that he had no _room to entertain_.

Admittedly, it wasn’t _all_ bad. The flat screen mounted over the fireplace was fine. The pool table was okay too. It was nicer than what the Alibi boasted, and really, did a pool table _have_ to go with anything?

The light fixture dangling above it, however, was destined for a landfill. It was the ugliest shit imaginable, and Ian considered that quite an accomplishment next to the gross yellowish curtains that framed the doors leading out onto a small courtyard. Somebody would be doing Ned a favor by tearing it down, rolling it up in the equally tacky rug on the floor, and lighting them both on fire.

And why were there lamps? They had fucking can lights.

Rich people. They definitely had more money than they knew what to do with.

That was it. Ian couldn’t very well bring Lip here—what message would _that_ send about how far he’d come?—but he _could_ take pictures later for them to laugh over once he moved somewhere that wasn’t an interior design nightmare.

…That was what he could do! One of his paths! His new dream! Interior designer. Teaching these uppity types how to decorate without overdoing it. Hell, they’d probably pay extra for some South Side flair. The closer they could get to that perception of ghetto danger without actually having to experience it themselves, the more they’d buy in. Lip had said that. Or maybe it was Frank. …Possibly Kevin. Whoever. Either way, it made sense, and it was something Ian would be fucking _great_ at! Ideas swam into and around his head at incredible speeds ( _lose that chair and find another that’s similar to the couch and then the table can go but a darker wood one might look okay and still match the pool table but the tile fuck the tile is green or maybe gold what the hell were they thinking that’s so fucking dumb_ ), and he’d only _just_ walked through the door.

He’d add that to his notebook. He’d pick up some magazines to get a feel for how costly things were and how much he could mark it up to put away a bit for himself.

It was perfect! He wouldn’t even require any capital to start. A Facebook page to get the word out, his cell phone so clients could call and text him, money for transportation to his consultations—and then the upper echelons of Chicago society would pay for the rest. One week would see him up and running, give or take a couple of days if he ran into any unforeseen obstacles.

Ian wordlessly decided that was what they were celebrating when Ned meandered into the kitchen and retrieved two bottles from the refrigerator, handing him one of those IPA beers that wealthy people guzzled and Frank would sneer at as not actual alcohol, but a substitute for pussies. And it was… _nice_ , cracking it open and taking a few large gulps like no time at all had passed.

For a second, anyway. Because it _had_.

They weren’t the same people they had been last summer, Ian especially. That guy had no spine. In those sporadic instances where Ned had done or said something that made his skin crawl a bit with a type of discomfort he couldn’t quite characterize, he’d…taken it. He hadn’t said a word. He’d gone with the flow and played it cool the way Lip always told him to. But standing in Ned’s living room today, surrounded by opulence that was at once disquieting and hospitable, that unease and the reluctance to voice it had vanished. It wouldn’t be like that. Not again. He was strong enough to say what he wanted and what he didn’t. He was brave enough to go after or put a stop to it. He was done hiding conforming meeting arbitrary expectations doing it how everyone else told him to giving up giving up giving up giving up giving up—

He wasn’t what the army had attempted to make him he wasn’t what Lip had accused him of being he was _better_ he had the power now and he wasn’t letting it go—

Ever.

It was there while he drank and there while he catalogued possible changes to Ned’s floor-plan and there while he…choked on his beer at the sight of some dude rounding the corner from the hallway. A dude who looked eerily similar to what Ian saw in his mirror each morning.

If a brain could hiccup, Ian swore his did.

_What the fuck…?_

That… He was…

Ian couldn’t be the only one who noticed… It couldn’t be his imagination…

Right?

The awkward hush that descended was noncommittal at best. There were no salutations, introductions, or other observed social niceties as the guy froze on the spot. He said nothing, his eyes automatically scanning Ian from the wisps of his disheveled hat hair to his salt-stained, threadbare, filthy sneakers, which were eons away from the shiny dress shoes and ridiculous sweater vest his doppelgänger modeled. His resulting disdain was so palpable that Ian would have thought he was reacting to a neighbor not picking up their dog’s shit—as if anybody who decorated like _this_ could say a word about Ian’s sartorial proclivities.

The douchebag’s distaste didn’t ease when his cool gaze shifted to Ned, who swallowed his mouthful of expensive imitation beer too slowly to claim the first word.

“I thought I heard the door,” his apparent boyfriend haughtily announced, folding his arms and waiting for either an explanation or Ian’s exit. It was fairly obvious which he preferred. “This is your… _friend_?”

There it was. So, he’d noticed the creepy resemblance too. At least it wasn’t Ian’s mind playing tricks on him.

Jesus, Ned really did have a type. His current flame (or whatever he called this prick) even wore his hair the exact way Ian used to. His shade of red wasn’t as vibrant, but the style and general coloring were as strikingly familiar as his height and musculature. Besides obviously having a few years on Ian, they’d be nearly indistinguishable from each other to anybody on the street.

Fuck. Ned _really did_ have a type. Ian didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up in his mouth.

“Ah, yes. This is Ian,” Ned finally introduced him with all of his typical, irritatingly unflappable composure. “He’ll be staying with us for a while. And Ian, this is Bruce.”

Throwing up. That felt much closer to the mark.

_Bruce_ , huh? Ned had said it earlier, but Ian belatedly interpreted that as an adequately snobby name for someone who grew visibly surlier at Ian’s cautiously polite nod. What a shock _that_ was.

Ian had long since established that Ned’s tastes were… _sophisticated_ , in the traditional sense. The nicest restaurants in the city housed wine lockers that he paid an exorbitant amount to visit once a year, and on more than one occasion, he claimed to have dished out for VIP parties at the clubs he frequented. His old house could have fit three of Ian’s; the car in the garage downstairs had to be worth a couple semesters of Lip’s tuition. Then there was _this_ place. Surgeons sacrificed a lot, but they were compensated fucking well for it, and Ned’s personal preferences reflected that.

In another life, Ian had pretended to fit into that glamorous scene. As far as he was aware, he’d done a damn good job until Ned discovered that he was Jimmy’s South Side girlfriend’s younger brother. Even after that, Ian had performed passably. Ned drunkenly stumbling into their living room was what put the kibosh on that illusion. It didn’t matter that Ned hadn’t treated him any differently after his peek at Ian’s side of the yards: his words were sufficient to communicate that Ned assumed he must be some kind of hardened criminal by the age of sixteen. Otherwise, Ian wouldn’t have been his first and only candidate for stealing shit from his own house.

_Bruce_ , on the other hand, was solidly built but looked like he would be more comfortable picking up lattes for the office than stealing milk, butter, and an extra carton of cream for Veronica out of a dairy truck.

“Right. Ned mentioned you were his little slum experiment.”

_Bruce_ was also a grade-A asshole. Would wonders never cease?

There were a million scathing retorts on Ian’s tongue that he never got a chance to issue. Bruce and his inarguably tiny dick didn’t care what he had to say, and he swiveled back to Ned as though Ian didn’t exist.

“We’re meeting Dennis and Chris for drinks at nine, so don’t forget to change,” he brusquely instructed, whirling on his heel and strutting in the direction from whence he came. Right before he vanished into a room on the left side of the hall, he paused to glance over his shoulder at Ian. “And try not to steal or break anything. We’re still waiting on the insurance paperwork.”

Then the door slammed shut, incongruously effective punctuation for an uninspired insult that Ian had heard a million times.

For a moment, it was quiet. Ian stood there with the beer he’d barely touched, curling his lower lip over his teeth and nodding slowly. Ned was equally at a loss, which had to be a first.

Then he wasn’t, unfortunately.

“I should have mentioned that I told him about our…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

Lifting his eyebrows, Ian cocked his head and didn’t say a word. He didn’t trust himself not to respond with something that would inevitably get him thrown out. Ned knew what he was thinking. That would have to do.

“He’ll lighten up,” he assured Ian, that confidence returning full force and accompanied by a winning smirk as he raised his bottle to his lips again. “Maybe once you two get to know each other, we can even give that threesome a try, huh?”

That was a joke. Clearly, it was a joke. Ned had a habit of willfully misinterpreting various signals when it suited him, but he hadn’t made all his money being a dumbass. He didn’t actually believe that Ian had any intention of hopping into bed with one of them, let alone both. Ian could jerk off in the shower if he wanted to play with himself, after all.

His deadpan stare must have said as much because Ned shuffled towards the hall rather than meet it.

“Why don’t I, uh…show you where you’ll be sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

***

_Rip._

The room was okay.

_Rip._

That was a lie. The room was _impressive_.

_Rip._

The style matched everything else in Ned’s condo, from the ugly yellow drapes over the floor-to-ceiling window right down to the cheetah-print blanket folded neatly across the end of a bed more than twice the size of what Ian slept in at basic.

_Rip._

Hours outside the comfort of this provisional haven, the rest of his erstwhile unit was dozing off to the lullaby of squeaky springs and industrial steel beneath plain regulation sheets.

_Rip._

Ian didn’t miss that. Unpleasant as they were, he’d gladly take the brown, studded leather headboard and faux Victorian rug any day if it meant freedom and getting to be his own man.

_Rip._

Resisting the temptation to splurge on a nice hotel room had paid off, in any case. These digs were far more luxurious, and he didn’t have to pay for room service or a mini bar.

_Rip._

He didn’t have to pay for _anything_. That part was still…unnerving. Ned didn’t want rent checks. He said the contents of the fridge were Ian’s to peruse and consume at his leisure. Thankfully, Bruce’s indignant huff had signaled his rapid departure, so he didn’t hear Ned hint at the liquor cabinet that had no lock.

_Rip._

Ian didn’t stray from beer very often, but he was already acquiring a taste for the decades-old whiskey in a glass on the nightstand. Only a couple fingers’ worth, though. He hadn’t been properly wasted since the wedding from hell, and he was determined to keep it that way.

_Rip._

There was too much he needed to accomplish for him to binge like that.

_Rip._

And drinking to excess had never really been his thing anyway. That was for bad days.

_Rip._

This wasn’t a bad day—this was the _best_ day! This was the first day of the rest of his life! Why should he spend what remained of it staggering around the condo? There were more effective methods of celebrating despite the growing weight of his absent obligations and that tingling beneath his skin that insisted he was supposed to be _doing something_.

_Rip_.

He was! He was making room.

_Rip._

There wasn’t enough room. He had to make room. He had to make space. He needed to clear it out.

_Rip. Rip. Rip._

…All right, so _maybe_ it couldn’t hurt to take the edge off.

_Rip._

Ian sipped his drink.

_Rip._

The excitement was getting to him. That or the anxiety. He couldn’t tell.

_Rip._

What was there to be anxious about, though? He was good. He was _so_ good. Ian hadn’t been this good in a long time, and that was sort of his own fault. The army _was_ his idea.

_Rip._

But no big deal, right? That was behind him _rip_ and he had all the time in the world.

_Rip._

Chicago winked at him through the blinds. _Home_ welcomed him back with open arms and the _rip_ pervasive hum of traffic, but it wasn’t the same. _He_ wasn’t the same, despite his memory’s less than subtle trickery in the car _rip_ that afternoon. Being here didn’t mean he would relapse. He was _better_ now.

_Rip._

All he had to do was formulate a plan an _rip_ objective a goal. He’d toss the other pieces like _rip_ the trash they were. He didn’t need them anymore. Maybe he never r _ip_ had. His future was bright! It could use a bit of shaping, that was all.

_Rip._

Interior design was a solid path. Or he could go into distilling. Plenty of people filled liquor cabinets all over Chicago with thousands of dollars’ worth of booze. There was a ton of money in that. Ian didn’t really have much knowledge regarding the process, but he was confident that it wouldn’t be difficult to pick up, given his upbringing and how it literally ran through his veins at one point or another because no way was Monica not drunk off her ass as well as _rip_ being high on PCP when she’d slept with Frank’s brother no way in hell so alcohol was part of him and this was some good shit _rip_ and if he had a knack for it then there was no reason he couldn’t make a living off both that and interior design they practically went together _rip_ like any self-respecting wealthy asshole attempting to outshine their friends _rip_ would want to ensure that their liquor cabinet was stylish and edgy and one of a kind so that they didn’t check their Facebook and discover _rip_ that somebody else stole their look not that that was possible _rip_ but rich people were all about appearances and pretenses so their lack of sense benefited Ian _rip_ and the profit he’d make would double or triple if he could interest them _rip_ not only in the storage but the contents to put inside it as well _rip rip rip_ the designer gig would get him started so that he could afford the stuff he required to _rip rip_ organize a distillery with materials and staff and insurance right he’d need insurance and a license couldn’t forget that how did you get a license for that sort of thing he’d _rip_ make a note to research that later _rip rip_ as soon as he had more space in his _rip rip rip rip_ notebook but fuck he’d written a lot while he was in basic and none of it was worth a damn holy shit why did he have so many notes about trajectories and weapons and Kash and protocols that bullshit was behind him he would never need it again and good riddance _rip rip_ it was the future now all about the future all for the future he had a future and he wasn’t going back to the past because _rip_ the future was bright just like this room _rip rip_ and the lamplight that couldn’t bounce off the tattered _rip rip rip_ pages as he tore them out not fast enough why didn’t it end fuck where did it end and the light _rip_ was absorbed by endless black scribbles that grew progressively _rip_ less organized and less legible and less _rip_ important and that was okay not for long not for long _rip rip_ they’d go away he’d make them go away and _rip_ start fresh start over square one not square one that was a place he’d never go back to because it was about the future now and it was bright _rip rip rip_ and he was making it work—

_Rip._

…He needed to buy a new journal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random note: it was such a strange feeling to have outlined this chapter last summer when Ned was still alive and be writing it now, knowing he's not. Also, thank you for your patience between updates! Work has been very busy lately, and Ian's head is becoming a very chaotic place to live in, so I'm afraid my updates have been a bit slower. Thank you again!


	11. Part 2.3: Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter more extensively examines how Ian currently sees the world around him. Proceed with caution if this is something troubling for you to read.

Banks and ATM machines were obnoxious as fuck. In hindsight, Frank’s occasional ravings about scams and legal fraud in the nation’s reigning financial institutions may not have been _total_ bullshit.

There were withdrawal limits. _Daily_ withdrawal limits.

What the hell?

Objectively, Ian grasped the rationale behind that decision: if some asshole stole your bank card and tried to drain your whole account in a day, they were shit out of luck so that you didn’t have to be. The alternative was the Franks of the world cheating the system more thoroughly than they already did, so as far as security measures went, imposing withdrawal limits was fairly sound.

Ian was using his _own_ bank card, though. _He_ wanted the money, not a thief or pickpocket. Actually, strike that—he _needed_ the money, preferably without sitting on hold for an hour just to ask a representative if they could release the funds. Irritatingly, it was impossible to do in person because the goddamn army had screwed him over yet again by signing him up for a bank that had no physical branches in Chicago. He wouldn’t be taking the L to the nearest location and speaking with a teller. There was no standing in line, tapping his foot impatiently while the customer ahead of him shared their life story before _finally_ getting down to business.

Nope. He had to hold for an _hour_ as the world continued to rotate and the day grew later and later, utterly wasted and indifferent to his plight. An hour where he could have accomplished so much, gone forever.

Then the lady on the other end of the phone picked up and had him verify thirty thousand pieces of information to prove that he was the person whose name was on the account. That part was kind of funny, if he was being honest. Address on file? Phone number? Date of birth? Last four of his social security number? Last four of his account number? Security questions? Ian had it all memorized, but that didn’t make him Lip any more than paying to have his picture printed on an ID under his brother’s name. He was merely a convincing decoy, visible only to the people he desired to see him—the ultimate master of disguise, slippery and unstoppable.

Either the army remained fooled by his convincing credentials or they hadn’t spread the word that there had been an impostor in their midst, because the representative bought that he was Phillip Gallagher as readily as everybody at basic. She deferentially referred to him as _Mr. Gallagher_ , asked if he was looking forward to reasonably decent weather this weekend, and put him on hold _again_ to get permission from her supervisor to increase his withdrawal limit and close the account so that he could pay the sudden unexpected urgent funeral costs for his aunt before the morgue cremated her because otherwise he would need to fax them paperwork as if anybody faxed shit anymore and then wait seven to ten business days too long way too long for a check to come in the mail that he would then need to cash at yet another bank when it was easier to just let him get his money given that it was _his_ fucking money but okay yeah fine he could wait he didn’t have plans today they could take their sweet ass time deciding whether to give him the cash _he’d_ earned not them footsteps on the floorboards back and forth back and forth—

Did digital clocks tick? Ian was certain that the one on his nightstand could. And it was so _loud_ about it, rudely reminding him that he was languishing in Ned’s guest room while his life passed him by there were other things he needed to be doing right now and anyway the hold music was annoying oh that was something he could do design hold music but he couldn’t play an instrument not that that mattered since whoever made this crap couldn’t either and he had a good ear or good enough to tell what was music and what was total garbage like this this was garbage all he needed was some equipment and one of those keyboards that let you make any sound you wanted there had to be online instructors that would teach him to play piano it couldn’t be that hard a bit of uninterrupted time and plenty of patience and Ian would pick it up fast and with the right mixing software he’d have it done and ready to truly entertain the bored masses that whiled away the hours on hold like he was it was perfect he could do that he’d be great at it—

Ian scribbled his latest in a string of brilliant ideas on his forearm. There weren’t any pages left in his notebook. Pretty soon, there wouldn’t be enough skin either.

So, he also jotted down _new journal_ in tiny, cramped letters on the inside of his wrist and underlined it three times. Just in case.

It would have been fantastic to go buy one but guess what he couldn’t get his money out of the bank after that initial six hundred because they were assholes leeching the minutes out of his day tick tock tick tock come _on_.

His relentless pacing was wearing a hole in the hardwood floor. It had to be. He would definitely need the money to compensate Ned for that. Eventually. At this rate, he could get a job and earn the difference before the representative returned with a verdict.

Why did it feel like nobody in the world understood that he had shit to do—so much shit to do that it couldn’t possibly wait any longer? His entire day thus far had been spent this way, one tedious interaction after another endeavoring to drive him nuts. That morning, Ned had gone to maddening lengths to verify that Ian was comfortable in the guest room because the light had been on all night, same as him. (Bruce’s response was a snide remark that children were afraid of the dark, and Ian’s _innocent_ question about whether he was speaking from experience hadn’t improved the atmosphere at _all_.) They took an eternity to give him instructions on locking up and hand over the promised key. Ned had prepared to depart in slow motion while Ian practically vibrated at the kitchen counter, eager to be out the door already. The morning crowd on the sidewalk was a quagmire, and he may as well have been walking backwards rather than forward as he marveled at the bright, brilliant, cloudless blue sky above. The ATM machine processed his request and spit out all the bills it was allowed to with the speed of a cheap office printer from the eighties.

Was it them? Was it him?

Was the world slowing down, or was he going faster?

He’d run back to the building. He’d jogged through the corridor to Ned’s condo, breathlessly apologizing to the lady in unit four when he almost clocked her in his haste.

An hour later, he was breaking a sweat because back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth—the funds were available due to his emergency circumstances? He could take it out of the ATM in increments as long as he did so prior to midnight? They were sorry for his loss?

“Thank you, thank you so much. No, that’s it. You have a great day too.”

Then gone.

Not gone. His coat was still on his bed, and it was cold outside. He backtracked for it and plucked his hat from the drawer where he’d stowed it for good measure.

Then gone.

Not gone. Kitchen. Somehow, it was nearly lunchtime, and he hadn’t noticed how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten today. Food had slipped his mind. It got lost in the shuffle. There was too much to do. Fuck, he was _starving_. Food first, then. Inconvenient, but necessary.

A quick sandwich. A protein bar couldn’t hurt.

_Then_ gone, the fake chocolate sticking out of his mouth crumbs landing on his jacket as he tugged on his hat brush them off no big deal he could wash it later Ned said the machine was available to him whenever he liked he could run a load when he completed his errands half his shit reeked of the barracks tonight he made a mental note to handle that tonight but not right this second he had to go.

Through the condo.

Out the door.

Down the corridor.

Outside. Clouds had rolled in while he was tied up, but they weren’t ominous or unforgiving. They were the beautiful winter patches that didn’t exist anywhere but right here in Chicago! Big, puffy grey tufts drifted in the same direction that the wind propelled Ian. They understood—they _got it_. Places to go! Shit to do! A whole world out here to explore!

And what a world.

The slowpokes from earlier must have reached their destinations, leaving the sidewalk free and clear for Ian to traverse with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. The air was crisp and smelled strongly of car exhaust, fast food, and a hint of cologne or perfume where once a person stood. Neon lights and jarringly colorful posters in shop windows kindly informed him of sales that were coming to an end and a new recipe for an old menu item and recent arrivals and liquidation and buy one get one half off updated store hours help wanted for lease for sale for rent lottery cards sold here membership discount hurry the offer would expire soon hurry it wouldn’t last forever hurry someone else would get there first hurry hurry don’t get left behind hurry hurry try it today hurry hurry _hurry_ —

Ian’s heart thudded in his chest. His pulse was a thunderstorm to his ears. His muscles squirmed as though they were attempting to break free of his skin, which was the only way that he could possibly follow all the messages simultaneously assaulting his senses. Opportunities—so many opportunities that were presenting themselves, prostrate before him where he sat atop a throne of freedom that had eluded him for almost seventeen years. So much excitement. So much to investigate. So much simply _handed_ to him by a universe that finally decided he had earned the benefit of the doubt and a bit of slack. So much to see and feel and touch and consume and experience and—

There was the ATM machine.

Was it too much? Maybe it was too much. Like Frank on a bender or Monica tearing the house apart to never clean it later, the sensory overload made his head throb with the pressure of _so much_.

The screen prompted him to insert his card and enter the pin number for his checking account.

What if he overlooked something or he prematurely decided on pursuing a specific course when another was better for him? Wouldn’t that be the army all over again? Could he do it all at once, sample everything and select what fit best? Or would it break him? Would it rend his flesh, shatter his mind, and tear him limb from limb? Would he collapse under the weight of _so much_?

The gears churned loudly, and six hundred dollars happily leapt into his gloved hands.

Nah, of course he wouldn’t. Ian was _better_ now. The old him would have crumbled— _had_ crumbled. That wasn’t who he was anymore. All those opportunities at his fingertips? They were a gift. He could handle it. No matter where he went or what he chose or how events unfolded or if it worked out in the long run, he could handle it.

The prompts walked him through the process again and again until all the cash in his account was snuggled cozily in his wallet and he was moving. He had to. There was, after all, _so much_. He’d squandered years and years and _years_ either sitting on his ass or making plans that hadn’t come to fruition despite his best efforts. His newfound liberation wasn’t meant to be piddled away so easily. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity: a fresh, new start. Clean slate. Not quite square one, but pretty damn close. That was probably why it felt mildly overwhelming.

_Just_ mildly. Ian had this! He used to tell Lip that when his brother wasn’t sure whether Ian needed him to have his back, and it was true as fuck now—Ian _had this_. There was a lot, but it wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. How could it when Ian was determined to live life to the fullest?

Unlike those guys.

_Oh, fuck._

Ironically, it was the camo that caught his eye. Amidst the vibrant reds blues greens whites greys oranges purples that surrounded Ian as he waded through a sea of winter jackets, they stood out like a sore thumb: two middle-aged men, both in uniform beneath their black overcoats, striding purposefully towards him. Men on a mission—he would have recognized that gait anywhere.

The air wasn’t quite knocked out of his chest, but it was a close call. They weren’t looking for him, were they? No. They couldn’t be. Why _would_ they be? It wasn’t possible. The army had no intel from which to conclude that he was here. Not… _Chicago_ here—his enlistment records made this the first place they’d search if they deemed a solitary AWOL recruit worth expending the resources—but _here_ here. No way. There was _no way_ they could know.

…Unless they traced his bank activity. Was that what had happened? He’d used his card at the ATM and it got flagged, leading them straight to him? While he sat on fucking hold, believing that he was in the clear, the MPs from the Army Reserve Center near Fort Dearborn had been deployed to hunt a rogue trainee in the vicinity? They were coming to take him away. That was it—they were coming to take him away because he wasn’t where he was supposed to be and fuck maybe he should have waited until basic was over to leave he would have been allowed to at that point that would have been okay because he didn’t have to sign on to continue if it wasn’t for him but he’d left and now they were coming for him but no if he’d stayed it would have meant more time stolen from him time he didn’t have because there was so much to do stupid stupid stupid he should have figured out the money shit before he got back to Chicago to throw them off his trail that was what Lip would have done that or make a bunch of stops all around the goddamn Midwest so that they’d never be able to track him and even if they did eventually arrive in Chicago it would have given Ian an opportunity to get back on his feet and be moving and then they’d never find him not like now now he was in trouble now he needed to move he needed to do something but his feet kept dragging him forward while his eyes darted here and there and there and here desperately seeking something anything someone anyone that would stand between him and those two soldiers who were coming closer closer closer they were going to find out they would see his face and realize and grab him and then he’d never get to show his family how well he was doing or give them the presents he’d purchased for them in St. Louis or laugh at Ned’s ridiculous home furnishings with Lip or buy Debbie those braces or text Fiona fuck he’d forgotten to text Fiona he’d meant to do that it was too late now he’d never get the chance because they were _coming_ —

Ian yanked his hat down as far as it would go without blinding him in the hopes that his hair was fully covered and hunched his shoulders, bowing his head. Foolproof or not, it was the best he could manage. Running would be suspicious as hell. This? It made him another face in the crowd, casually traveling through the bitter cold rather than hiding like a little kid or fleeing like a fugitive.

Maybe.

Possibly.

_Shit._

At once, everything else seemed to fade away: the too-warm bodies on all sides, the too-bright window displays, the too-loud rush of traffic, and the too-pervasive scent of food and exhaust. Ian entered a tunnel where it was just him and those two soldiers on a collision course.

His chest hurt. His heart was beating too fast.

They were coming. They were _coming for him_.

He was trembling, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

There had to be something he could do. It wasn’t too late—not yet.

He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?

They’d never know. His family would never know what had happened to him if he didn’t escape. _Now_.

Words. There were words that Ian couldn’t make out. They didn’t penetrate the panicked fog that enveloped his mind as he veered right towards the nearest storefront. Where he was going was inconsequential; whatever that person had said, insignificant. He was jostled by the crowd and tripped over his own feet, but that was totally fine because…

Quiet. It was quiet. Around him. Inside him.

Quiet.

Ian couldn’t say when he’d closed his eyes, though he opened them to discover that he wasn’t being apprehended. There weren’t any shadows stalking him, not that they’d be able to when his back was pressed to the glass door he must have entered through. With no small degree of trepidation, he peered over his shoulder and wasn’t staring into a predator’s eyes. The throng flowed as steadily as a river, unconcerned for him or the whirlwind that had sent him reeling, and the soldiers were nowhere to be seen.

Quiet. It was quiet.

His heart was still racing. His muscles were still taut and primed for flight. His lungs still constricted behind his ribs.

But it was okay. He was going to be okay.

Maybe they _hadn’t_ been searching for him. That or the army had dispatched their least competent candidates for the task, which wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest. It didn’t matter. Ian won regardless. He was here, and they had no clue.

He was _free_. The army couldn’t rob him of that.

_Dumbass_ , he silently berated himself. What was wrong with him, freaking out for no reason like that? He had everybody fooled. He was invisible. He was safe in a high-end clothing store where they sold shit that, not too long ago, he could only have afforded if somebody donated it to Goodwill.

Oh, clothes! Ian had planned to start there but got distracted by banks and red tape! With his pulse gradually slowing and the terror that had consumed him moments ago all but forgotten (he was being an idiot—he was fine everything was fine it was great perfect _excellent_ ), Ian had to admit that the inconvenience had sort of paid off. Yeah, he could have bought new shit with his debit card, but as those mindless army tools just reminded him, it was better to lay low and get rid of anything that tied him to the military altogether until the potential heat died down.

There was cash in his pocket, though. More cash than he’d ever held at one time outside of counting the register at work or the squirrel fund at the end of the summer. Even then, there was something sobering about the former not belonging to him and every cent of the latter being dedicated to their survival.

So was the roughly three thousand dollars burning a hole in his wallet. He couldn’t overlook that, tempting as it was. He had to make his funds last, especially if his burgeoning ambitions went sideways and Ned requested payment for Ian’s current accommodations. Sloppy, irresponsible decisions would serve him in the present; the future was dependent on his caution and self-restraint.

But…this _was_ necessary for survival, wasn’t it? Fully anticipating that he’d be donning government-subsidized attire for the next four years, Ian hadn’t brought many outfits with him when he’d departed for basic, and some of that stuff was already on its last legs. Supplementing his meager wardrobe was a must. Besides, this was a business expense! Nobody would take him seriously if he always showed up in shirts that had long since faded in the wash, jeans with frayed edges, and shoes that had seen their fair share of dog shit around the neighborhood over the years. Ian had to look professional if he was going to make this work—whatever _this_ was. The infinite ideas that poured into his brain were temporarily tattooed to his arm—

_Journal. Don’t forget to buy a new journal._

—and the vast majority of them would require a certain level of interpersonal relations where his appearance absolutely mattered. This wasn’t frivolously throwing money out the window like Frank and Monica were wont to do. It was business!

_Where to begin…_

Shirts? At a glance, the tops lining each rack were trendy, albeit overly complicated like Ned’s condo. Countless cuts and styles and colors vied for his attention, and Ian found it nigh impossible to focus on merely one display. It was an onslaught, a deluge of possibilities that excited and repelled him in equal measures. This was nice shit but expensive; quality, but countered by too many competing styles when something simple would do the trick.

Kash always preferred him in blues. Monica told him that green made his eyes pop once.

Mickey had conspicuously eyed his torso whenever Ian wore anything that hugged his figure a little tighter. Unintentionally, of course. It wasn’t Ian’s fault that he outgrew Lip’s hand-me-downs so quickly.

Sighing, he shut the lid on that box before memories of what those shameless gazes did to him could surface. Freedom. He was _free_ , and allowing himself to tread those ancient, dilapidated avenues would be willingly retreating into the shackles that had confined the old him. No, thanks.

Ian looked good in clothes that fit a bit tighter thanks to years of ROTC training. That was all there was to it. He’d start there and be thrifty about this.

The T-shirts couldn’t cost an arm and a leg.

A few new long-sleeve shirts to replace the ones with pit stains on them wouldn’t break the bank.

He could try on jeans that had never been worn by anybody else.

The lighter colors weren’t too bad in conjunction with his complexion now that his freckles were hibernating for the winter. And they had matching hats…

Oh, fuck. The leather jackets were on sale…

***

> _Miss you guys, having fun!_
> 
> _Good to hear. We love you_

Ian hesitated, thumbs hovering over his phone screen. It wasn’t that he felt _guilty_ for not telling Fiona that he was in Chicago or leaving home in the first place, per se. As time passed and his distance from that clusterfuck increased, he simply couldn’t believe that he’d made the wrong choice in either instance. Informing Fiona that he wasn’t far might not have her scouring the city for him, but Lip _would_. Well, if he could drag himself away from his new college life. That was a risk Ian couldn’t take, just like sticking around to test his willpower when he was weak and indecisive. He’d made the proper call. This was the right move, and if he’d gone about the whole thing another way, he probably wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have come so far.

This was _right_.

Ian’s certainty didn’t dilute the bitter taste of remorse for _how_ it had happened or assuage the heavy weight that homesickness deposited in the pit of his stomach, however. Ned’s condo was nice and unquestionably more comfortable than the barracks, yet…it wasn’t _home_ , and Ian was tired of pondering when the opportune moment to spill his guts to his siblings was upon him.

> _Love you too_

He did. He really, truly did. His affection for his family was why he’d embarked on this path. Did he hunger for details? Was he yearning to ask how Lip’s first semester was going or what new ideas Debbie had in mind for the daycare this summer or whether Carl had broken any other bones or if Liam had grown more consistent with using the big-boy toilet by himself? Absolutely. It wasn’t lost on him that a few swipes and taps were all it would take for him to find out, too, the same as his first day at Reception Battalion.

It also wasn’t lost on him that he couldn’t go that route. It wasn’t possible. Not then, and not today.

To inquire after his family was to open a door that couldn’t be closed no matter which of his siblings he contacted. Fiona would have her own questions and expect him to answer them honestly. (She’d instantly recognize if he didn’t. Either she had a sixth sense for that shit or Ian simply couldn’t lie convincingly where she was concerned. It fucking sucked.) So would Lip, though his would likely be tainted by a few accusations and concerns that Ian wasn’t prepared to field right now. Debbie couldn’t be trusted to keep any communication a secret. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work. A call, a text, a visit—they ended in failure. They ended in disappointing the people he loved most in this world.

Letting them down wasn’t an option.

So, he reluctantly forced himself to lock his screen and drop his phone onto the cushion beside him, replacing it with his pen and the new notebook he’d invested in yesterday. He had to focus. There was work to be done. This logo wasn’t going to finish itself. Graphic design was his future. It was _the_ future! A Loyola pamphlet had declared it in bold print for the world to see, or just the patrons at the local gym where he’d bought a membership. Ian didn’t have fancy computer equipment or anywhere near enough to pay for tuition, but that was okay. He’d make it work. There had to be tutorials online, right? He’d perfect his artistic skills, collect the profits from his interior design business, and then branch out. Producing everything he needed on his own would save him a fortune on advertising! He wouldn’t have to rely on _anybody_ , and that was precisely how he liked it.

Yeah. That was Ian. Capable and independent.

His phone case dug into the side of his leg.

Graphic design couldn’t be too difficult. A half-assed examination of the stuff they’d sold at the Kash and Grab provided ample evidence that companies weren’t in the market for sophisticated or complex signage. Lip would totally agree: the goal was to catch customers’ attention and drum up just enough interest in the product to purchase it. After that, it was all a matter of preference. Snazzy packaging wouldn’t draw people back for seconds if what they bought was crap any more than a plain tube would ward off someone who loved Pringles.

His pen was poised over the page. He tapped his finger idly against the back cover of his journal.

The selling points for his artwork would be the same as his decorating: simple and clean. Nothing extraneous. Nothing ostentatious. The sort of shit that would appeal to anybody anywhere, from the back of the yards to the luxury suites at the Waldorf Astoria. If his clients wanted something grittier, something more tailored to his South Side experience (or what their television-fueled imaginations were convinced growing up in his neighborhood was like), he could deliver on that too. Ian wasn’t the brightest guy on the planet, but he was a fairly quick study, and Chicago had no shortage of street graffiti for him to analyze and hone his craft. Rich pricks wouldn’t discern a difference anyway.

The soles of his new black Converse sneakers repeatedly squeaked on the freshly waxed floor. The pool table was too far from his chair to use it as a footrest.

Someday, he would return home as a force to be reckoned with. His siblings would be taken care of for the rest of their lives because he would own and operate successful businesses to keep them flush. No more squirrel fund or worrying that Frank might deplete it if he happened upon their hiding spot. Lip could finish school without feeling responsible for their well-being, and the days of Fiona working two and three temp jobs would be a thing of the past. For the first time in any Gallagher’s life, they’d be able to relax and _breathe_. As for Ian? He’d still be free. Free to come and go as he pleased. Free to pursue his passions. Free from the troubles that had plagued him last year.

Fuck, it was _quiet_ in here.

> _Hey_

…Why was his phone in his hands? When had that happened?

He must have grabbed his cell without thinking, home and family on his mind. Careless. Too careless.

A text he didn’t recall sending was open on the screen, but it wasn’t addressed to Fiona. Thank God. _That_ would have been bad.

> _Shouldn’t you be on a plane to Tehran or something?_

The flippant yet rapid response flooded him with relief, and whether this was a mistake or not, Ian grinned. Mandy had always been about as supportive of his military aspirations as Lip, so he could practically hear her ribbing him from across the city.

Then reality came crashing down around him, and the warm apartment turned frigid.

Jesus. What was he going to tell her about that? How did he explain not updating his best friend? Once Donovan had granted them their phone privileges, he’d had any number of opportunities to contact Mandy and hadn’t. It was too painful, too close. With Fiona, that wasn’t the case: she was his sister and legal guardian. Ian wasn’t forthcoming with detailed information, but he made sure she knew he was alive and doing all right. (Better than all right!) Mandy, on the other hand, lived in the nightmare house a few blocks over. She’d witnessed him falling apart. She’d listened to him say goodbye, and not just to _her_. She saw Mickey every day, heard his voice, watched his wife get more and more… _pregnant_. The notion of reaching out to her under those circumstances hadn’t _felt right_.

Nothing had changed, of course. It was exactly the same now: same house, same memories, same circumstances. _Ian_ wasn’t, which made all the difference.

So, why should he hide his location from _Mandy_? After the shit Lip pulled, it was pretty unlikely that they were together (or whatever they called their relationship), especially if he was at college where she couldn’t go. Given that she and Fiona made quite a show of hating each other’s guts, the chances were extremely remote that she had any contact with his family while Ian wasn’t present. There was no danger that filling her in would come back to bite him in the ass later. Actually, the opposite was true: if things had gone another way with those army robots yesterday, nobody would have known what happened to him except for Ned. _That_ definitely wouldn’t do him any good or reassure his family in the event that he never made it home.

It was okay. This was fine. Mandy was his best friend. He could tell her. Once upon a time, they’d told each other everything. Well, nearly everything. She hadn’t told him about Lip, and he hadn’t told her about Mickey.

…On second thought, Ian probably owed her for that. Her secret hadn’t endured as long as his, even if both had ultimately blown up in their faces.

But that wasn’t important! All in the past. The future—that was what Ian trained his gaze on. Choosing the path ahead rather than the darkness behind was the greatest decision he’d ever committed to. It gave him the strength to sit up straight and the confidence to fire off a less cautious message with a smile on his face.

This was okay. This was fine.

> _No I’m in Chicago_

Hardly a minute passed before his phone rang, which was still okay and still fine. Only an idiot wouldn’t have anticipated as much with news like that following over two months of radio silence. If your best friend couldn’t pry into your business every now and again, who could?

Nevertheless, Ian didn’t immediately answer. The disadvantage of relying on someone else for shelter was that Ian’s privacy was limited. That wasn’t a new development, having spent most of his life sharing an increasingly crowded bedroom, yet it was completely different when the invasions were familiar and related to you. Ned having been called into work for some kind of emergency surgery a couple hours ago and Bruce studiously ignoring Ian’s presence from the comfort of his bedroom-slash-office-slash-bunker helped to an extent, though the sensation that he was being watched barely eased. The eyes were in the walls, ceiling, floor, and furniture; they had no lids, unblinking and intrusive as Monica when she was too high to notice that she was suffocating herself in the atmosphere. They waited for him to fuck up like he always did, emitting mouthless laughter at his efforts to _be_ somebody that blanketed him— _smothered_ him—in unavoidable disdain.

Always watching. Always waiting.

The guys at basic were the same.

The passengers on the bus were the same.

His family would have been the same had he gone home.

He’d prove them wrong. He would.

The phone persisted in its incessant ringing, and Ian hastily ducked out the sliding glass door to sit in a chair on the small patio. This was a conversation that he didn’t want to have where anybody could traipse through or those eyes would judge him further, the cold notwithstanding.

Fuck them.

“How the hell are you in Chicago?” Mandy demanded without preamble as soon as the call connected.

What a loaded question—a predictable one, at that. Ian absentmindedly adjusted his new hat, already regretting not bringing his coat, and scooted the chair back towards the wall to soak up as much heat from the building as he could. “Took a bus.”

“Asshole. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry,” he snickered. “It just…wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

“So, it _wasn’t_ a bunch of douchebags marching around with sticks shoved up their asses?”

She had him there.

“More like telephone poles,” Ian admitted, his smile widening a bit at the static that heralded her amused huff. God, he’d missed her.

The feeling was clearly mutual as she forewent further questioning and skipped straight to, “You wanna hang out tonight? Kenyatta’s working. We could get high, burn all your army shit in the backyard.”

_If only._

It sounded so easy when Mandy put it in those words. Had their lives really been that uncomplicated in the past? Ian could hardly remember, it had been so long since they’d experienced anything he could distantly define as _normal_. Hanging out after school, shopping (and shoplifting) on the weekends, listening to her bitch about friends he didn’t think she talked to anymore, trading barbs over coffee while she was living with his family—all that stuff had happened prior to the globe shifting on its access, sending them hurtling closer to the sun and further from each other. They weren’t those people anymore. The kids they’d been when they met were gone, as was the simplicity of what they’d believed was so complex back then.

Did she sense it too? Was her world spinning faster and faster like his? Could she more effectively dodge all the thoughts and ideas and possibilities and opportunities that seemed to beat him over the head every time he turned around? Could she sleep at night, could she turn it off, could she make it stop, could she tell her skin to quit crawling as though it was about to slither away where it was safe where things made sense where the shadows of the looming unknown weren’t pressing in from all sides?

They really weren’t those people anymore, irrelevant as that was.

“Uh, I’m not home.”

“I thought you said you were back,” she replied, audibly confused.

…Perhaps she _didn’t_ sense it.

There was a hole in his stomach. A big, empty, gaping, _lonely_ hole.

“I mean, I _am_ , but…” Ian trailed off, internally debating how much to tell someone who _didn’t get it_ , and settled on, “You remember that guy I was seeing? The one I met at that club?”

“…The rich doctor guy?”

“Yeah. He’s letting me crash with him for a while. Fiona’s gonna be pissed at me, so…”

“Oh.”

The excuse was thin even by his average standards, so it wasn’t difficult to visualize her expression or guess what was going through her head: assumptions, connections, _pity_. The shit she’d attempted to hide the last time they were together. She didn’t say another word, but she didn’t have to. It lingered in the dead air, heedless of the distance between them.

It hurt more than it should have, and Ian shivered from a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. A door that only existed in his mind slammed shut. A switch flipped, and as nice as it had been to hear Mandy’s voice, the abrupt urge to escape it and all the misguided sympathy he blissfully couldn’t see overwhelmed him.

He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it.

They really _weren’t_ those people anymore.

This wasn’t right. Not like the journal he’d left on the pool table inside or his late nights cultivating prospect after prospect.

_This_ was too much.

“Hey, my battery’s dying. I’ll text you later, okay?”

Soldiers didn’t run from their problems. Neither did Ian these days.

This wasn’t running.

It _wasn’t_. 

There was silence on the other end, then Mandy murmured, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

_Click_.

On his phone.

In his head.

_Click_.

Gone.

Ian took a shallow breath—then another—then another. It was better this way. _He_ was better this way. What good was he to Mandy? All he’d managed to do since the wedding was worry her. She didn’t have to say that either: it was painfully obvious.

Anyway. He’d done his due diligence as her best friend by dusting off her neglected contact information and letting her know some of what was going on. Not all of it. Not even half. Far less than that, really. That would have been a terrible idea, considering her physical proximity to his family, which wasn’t to say that he suspected she would be divulging anything that he told her those bridges had been burned to a crisp between Lip and Fiona but it was a loose end and Ian wasn’t a fan of loose ends he liked to tie things up neatly and have all his ducks in a row so that he could start a new chapter of his life without worrying about shit from before sneaking up on him when he least expected it and with Mandy there was plenty of shit or was there maybe there wasn’t nobody would give a damn that he was in the city but not at home Fiona wasn’t trying to grill him about his location anymore and Lip had been silent since that last voicemail and Mickey well Mickey didn’t matter he was a nonentity so Ian didn’t really even need to consider that but just for shits and giggles yeah Mickey wouldn’t care anyway he was probably quite happy with the whore he’d married and the father that hated who he was and Ian was a footnote in his unwritten autobiography so if Mandy opened her mouth to him about Ian being here it wasn’t like he would care that ship had sailed the storm had passed and they were both over it sure they were over it Ian was absolutely over it and Mickey would be no different because Mickey was strong despite his cowardice so yeah Ian wasn’t worried about that but still if Mandy knew then she would worry and he didn’t want her to worry that would be ridiculous and what the old Ian would do while the new Ian was better than that so much better than that he’d show her one day and make up for the text he never should have sent and the phone call he never should have answered it was all good everything was okay everything was fine he was fine he was great he was kind of cold but that was what he got for coming out here without dressing for the temperature fuck that was his phone—

Impatient as ever, Mandy didn’t give him a chance to _not_ text her, and Ian laughed at the result in spite of himself.

> _Have fun fucking your doctor_

What made it so hysterical was how far from the truth that was. Fucking Ned? Yeah, no. That wasn’t going to happen. He’d leave that to Bruce.

…Then again, Ian _was_ sort of on edge after yesterday’s scare and the irrational surge of panic that had driven him to texting Mandy at all. Would it be such a _bad_ choice to…?

But not with Ned. And not right this second. He had stuff to do. His logo wasn’t finished yet. He had to transcribe the rest of what was on his arm from memory because it had washed away in the shower that morning. Maybe a bit more of that whiskey would settle his nerves instead.

First things first, however.

Using his knee to prop his phone against the table, Ian opened the camera app and set the timer. The photo didn’t turn out great, but it showcased his middle finger even if his smirk wasn’t as pronounced as he’d been going for, so he’d call that mission accomplished.

Attach.

Send.

Whiskey. Yeah. That would warm him up _and_ cool him down.

So would a run.

It was too cold for a run. He could bundle up? The fresh air would be good for him!

His notebook and pen tutted at him as he slipped inside. Fuck. Work. He had work to get done. It took precedence.

It would also be there later, though. Inspiration wasn’t limitless, and if there was one lesson he’d learned from watching Fiona flounder over the years, it was that burnout was a real thing. Best to avoid that. And hey, there would be more ideas to add once he got some exercise! His head would be clear, his perspective would be sharpened, and his concentration would be at its peak. At this point, he doubted that he would sleep tonight anyway, so he had plenty of time. He could fit it all in. Everything would turn out just fine because, for once, everything was going his way.

He had a place to stay.

Nobody was looking for him.

His family wasn’t concerned.

Mandy was apprised of the situation.

The sidewalk wasn’t crowded. His new running shoes got excellent traction. The gym was open twenty-four hours a day.

It was warm inside. He was warmer.

There was an attractive dude watching him lift weights. It felt nice.

The same dude’s stare tracked him to the bikes. That felt nicer.

His heart raced—in a good way. His gaze was drawn to his admirer—in a good way.

Everything tingled. Everything was _so much_. The fluorescent lights winked at him and his new workout gear was soft and smooth against his skin and he wasn’t a waste of space or time to this person who spent theirs eyeballing his every move. The equipment said he completed two miles in twenty minutes, so he was strong. The mirrored walls reflected how the sweat on his face glistened captivatingly and his hair darkened a shade or two, so he was alluring. The weight of that unanticipated yet not unwelcome attention was a spotlight and Ian was the star of the show, so he was…

Well. He wasn’t thinking about Ned, that was for sure.

Five minutes after Ian stopped to hydrate and dry off, the guy sauntered into the locker room with a glance that struck him so hard that he was literally quivering in the aftermath.

Warm.

Hot.

Want.

_Need_.

So much. _Too_ much.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Not.

Enough.

Ian hurriedly emptied his water bottle and trailed those tantalizing footsteps, a moth to flame and burning as bright.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For more on my writing, Shameless, and assorted fandom madness, I'm on [Tumblr](https://pathoftheranger.tumblr.com/)!


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